The Agonies of Choice
by GandaldorePoggins
Summary: Jacob has everything, good looks, good dance moves, the love of a good woman, good teeth, goodness... so why does he feel so untouched by it all? Through a series of cunning manoeuvres and some casual bigamy, Jacob attempts to navigate the labyrinth of love, life and addiction; all whilst battling Voldemort and the Night King who plan to unleash the army of the dead on Hogwarts.
1. Chapter 1

_The scene is Hogwarts, our hero's name is Jacob Jones..._

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 **O** ne day Jacob was hanging around the Hogwarts courtyard, with his strong, slender fingers hooked through the loops in his leather trousers (Jacob was the only student allowed to wear leather trousers because of a favour he had done for Flitwick once.) His elegant platform shoes seemed to almost float above the wet flagstones of the ground, as if he was too perfect to be fully-connected to this world. He was musing over the recent rumours of unrest in the South of England; strange things were happening and it seemed like everyone was ignoring the signs except for him. Dead men has been sighted shuffling around the barren heathland of Cornwall, they were said to be digging for something if fishermen's tales were to be believed; and ever-more people had been going missing in Portsmouth for months it seemed like.

Suddenly, an average-looking girl shuffled up to him and started biting her bottom lip with protruding front teeth. Jacob sighed, knowing what was coming next and already dreading what he must do.

"Jacob... I-" She began. "I- don't think we've met." She thrust out a hand.

Jacob looked at the hand coolly, but did not unhook his fingers from the loops of his expensive leather trousers, which shimmered in the damp air like the glistening skin of a killer whale at an underwater disco. He waited, saying nothing.

"Oh, well-" Stammered the plain girl with frizzy hair, made worse by the drizzle. "I suppose you're, erm... busy? I just wanted to say that I read your superlative re-write of 'Hogwarts: A History' and I quite agree with absolutely everything you argued. I mean, in hindsight it's just obvious that..."

"What's your name, darling?" Jacob asked the horror, kindly.

"Hermione!" Chirped the girl. "Hermione Jone- I mean Granger!" She corrected, blushing furiously. Jacob thought she looked like a hairy radish with teeth. "I just wanted to ask you your views on feminis-"

"Well Hermione, I only go with older women." Jacob mused. He made a motion with his hand and a bent figure shuffled forward out of the gloom of a pillar. "This is Edith, my girl."

Edith scuffed forward on unsteady stilettos, torn fishnets flapping in the gentle breeze of the day. Her footsteps rang out on the cobbles like old typewriter keys, and the letter she was wrote was full of obscenity and forbidden lust.

"Oh, er- pleased to meet you." Stammered Hermione, jutting out a girlish hand. "Do you ah, go here? Only I don't remember seeing you in any classes."

"Naw I dunt go 'ere." Cackled Edith delightedly. "Am sixty-three, far too awld." Her voice was rough and experienced, like second-hand gravel that had been around a bit.

"Edith is allowed to stay in my room because of a favour I did McGonagall once." Said Jacob, answering the confused, but impressed look on Hermione's questioning face. "No one else is allowed." He re-adjusted his supple leather pants, casually.

"Ah used to be da trolly-dolly on da Hogwarts Express," cackled Edith. "Till ah got sacked for dishin' out gobblejobs in da baffroom. Ahm the one who first started calling our Jacob, 'Big Jacob.'" She said proudly. "Only man who cud ever make me gag... an I've been with Hagrid."

"Edith is riddled with AIDS," sighed Jacob with a tragic sigh. "But you better not hold that against her, or you'll have me to answer to." He added fiercely.

"Caught it off a terlet seat in Dulwich," tittered Edith. "Passed it on to me poor baby boy, me son... dead now." She stared at the ground, downcast.

Hermione felt a wave of sympathy for the woman. "Oh I am sorry," she declared. "How, er- old would he have been?"

"Lemme see..." Edith calculated on her gnarled fingers. "I gave it 'im when 'ee were thirty-six, and 'ee were dead by fifty. That were last year right enough, so 'eed be fifty-one now." She rummaged around in her filthy bra and pulled out a tamagotchi, handing it to Hermione.

"Oh- er, thank you." Said the girl, and started feeding it dutifully.

"T'other side ye fool!" Giggled Edith coquettishly, "It's a picture of me 'arold - my boy - when 'ee were only fifteen an' in the prime of his life. Looks just like our Jacob 'ere, don't 'ee?" She stroked Jacob's face fondly, whilst he blew perfect smoke rings from a battered crack pipe he'd produced from behind his ear.

Hermione turned the small electronic device over, which was going haywire because of the spells cast around Hogwarts. The tamagotchi had discovered a nun hiding in it's lavatory and was urinating all over her whilst lecturing her on the importance of good hygiene. The nun kept insisting she belonged in a painting on the third-floor, but every time she tried to leave the frame the tamagotchi would beat her mercilessly then resume lecturing on matters of personal grooming. On the back was a picture of the man she assumed to be Edith's son, Harold.

"Just like 'im, isn't 'ee?" Edith said again, jutting her pointed, warty chin at Jacob.

Hermione agreed that he was, keeping her reservations that the man in the picture looked older, balder and fatter, (whilst also seemingly half-Indian), to herself.

Just then Draco Malfoy poked his head out of an upstairs window and started pointing and laughing at Edith. "Oh I say Jacob, I didn't know we were allowed visits from our grandmothers during term time!" He giggled and gyrated in the window. "Why is yours dressed like a post-apocalyptic transvestite, may I ask?"

Big Jacob smiled enigmatically. "It's called 'fashion', Malfoy." He snorted dismissively. "I wouldn't expect someone who wears knee-length shorts and a tank-top to understand." A titter of mirth went up around the courtyard at this devastating putdown.

"And the missing teeth?" Cried Malfoy. "Her mouth looks like a domino wedged inside a prune- No, don't smile!" He yelled at Edith. "I've just eaten."

Big Jacob flushed crimson. "Shit cocks, Malfoy!" He bellowed, wiggling his wand through the air in a complicated arrangement.

Malfoy clutched his hands to his heart in a panic, then started to laugh when nothing happened. "Not so clever after all!" He mocked, still tittering. "Your magic is weaker than your mother's soups, you penniless vagabond!"

Just then Malfoy's stomach let out an harrowing rumble and there was a sudden expulsion of squeaking air; it sounded like a balloon being slowly deflated. A wet plop rang out around the courtyard and Malfoy turned green and slithered out of slight.

 **M** alfoy was all the talk of Hogwarts that night; and whilst having only the word of the Slytherins to go on, everyone seemed to agree how it had happened.

He (Draco) had entered the tower after supper complaining of an upset stomach. He had told Pansy Parkinson - who was by the window mooning over a stolen picture of Jacob - that he had half a mind to sneak to the kitchens and give the House Elves a good thrashing. That was one of Malfoy's secret passions, and he always found the flimsiest excuses to carry it out. One time he had done it because his water was too 'watery', another time because the Beef Wellington made his feet wet. But why he dressed the elves in frilly lace beforehand is anyone's guess; though whispers of Malfoy in lederhosen - carrying a whip made out of edible liquorice, with puff-pastry for shoes - echoed through the school corridors long after he had left.

Just as he was pulling on a pointed felt cap, his stomach let out an almighty grumble and Malfoy jumped up in consternation and fright. Skittering in the direction of the boy's lavatory, he clutched at his midriff and mumbled something about 'giving them double for this' and going 'all the way with Winky this time', before disappearing through the door. It was less than a minute later that a blood-curdling scream shattered Goyle's peaceful lute music drifting through the dungeons, as he serenaded Crabbe in the hopes of getting lucky.

Everyone jumped up in alarm as Malfoy bunny-hopped into the common room, with his knee-length shorts around his ankles and pale white hands covering his milky tackle. Such was the shock of his irregular appearance, many people failed to even notice the women's suspenders that hugged his thighs like tiny aunties with abandonment issues.

"I've been violated!" Cried Malfoy, holding up an exact replica of Big Jacob's jive sausage that had been wiggling in his y-fronts like an escape artist tied into a peach-colored sleeping bag with thick blue ropes.

"What are you talking about Draco?" Said Pansy Parkinson, eyeing the tube of meat lovingly.

"I've been invaded!" Screamed Draco, tearing at his hair in revulsion. " _Defiled_! This is the fifty-sixth one today!"

"Let me have a look at that Draco." Said Goyle, snatching the squirming meat musket out of Malfoy's hands and pocketing it in an instant.

Crabbe looked at him curiously. "Did you just put that dick in your pocket?" He asked Goyle.

"For research purposes." Explained Goyle, licking his lips. "It might be dangerous, we don't know what the effects of having it up your zippidy-doo-dah could be."

"You're such a good friend," sighed Crabbe. "Always thinking of others."

"Come on." Laughed Goyle, putting his arm around Crabbe's shoulder and slinging his lute across his back. "We'll take turns investigating," and they skipped out of the room.

Malfoy shook with unconditional defeat. "It's that granny-interferer Jacob, he's humiliated me for the last time, I tell you!"

When Malfoy mentioned Jacob, everyone in the common room clapped and cheered as they were filled by a sudden admiration for the wondrous magic perpetrated by Jacob, which was even stronger than the admiration they already felt for him. Even Malfoy joined in through his tears of degradation and shame.

"My father will hear about this!" Cried Malfoy. "He loves any news to do with Jacob, they play hopscotch together on Sundays with the Minister of Magic."

Pansy Parkinson began stroking his hair lovingly. "Can you remember the spell he cast, Draco?"

Draco jutted out his bottom lip and began to weep like an old cheese. "No." He stammered. "It was magic far greater than any I have ever seen, or heard of. A silent spell of intricate wonder and delicacy. It looked a bit like this-" Draco waggled his wand about ridiculously, looking like Snape that time he got drunk and danced to Taylor Swift, before insisting on giving the first year girls a raunchy puppet show using only his wrinkliest body-parts as characters.

Pansy stopped her stroking at once, her face determined. She stalked into the corner of the common room, waving her wand around her head in a foolish imitation of Draco, before wriggling hopefully, and sighing when nothing happened.

 **B** ack in Gryffindor tower, Jacob was sitting in the best seat by the fire, doing his best to ignore all the admiring stares from the Gryffindor girls, and the envious scowls from the Gryffindor boys. Neville was before him, humming the theme tune to Knightrider whilst painting Jacob's portrait. Edith was curled at Jacob's feet, twitching; out of her skull on a cocktail of ketamine and Dorito-powder. She was foaming slightly from the eyes and gargling as she half-choked on her own spit; Jacob adjusted her head lovingly and sighed.

Suddenly Seamus Finnegan let out a startled Irish yelp. "Bugger me sideways!" He cried. "But der's a great big dragon looking in through de window. Jacob, tell us what ter do?" He turned to Jacob frantically.

Jacob looked up calmly and smiled, also calmly. He kicked Edith's head off his foot and heard it clunk on the floor like a church bell filled with old meat. "One of the clock." Smiled Jacob, looking towards the window. He clicked his fingers and did a spell which involved no wand, but twelve minutes of body-popping accompanied by some erotic beatboxing. The window flew open and everyone clapped.

There was indeed a dragon outside; it was very large and had hard, black scales like a burnt leper. Its one visible eye looked menacingly into the room, surveying the scene like an out-of-sorts engineer. The head dipped and a haughty silver-haired woman with violet eyes, stepped through the window, staring daggers at Jacob. She saw Edith fitting at his feet and her face became a mask of hot fury.

"So this is the side-chick?" She bellowed, placing her small hands on her hips and vibrating with anger.

"Wot side-chick?" Asked Neville, as he longingly stroked the canvas with his small, but firm implement. "That's Edith, Jacob's fiancée."

Jacob let out a little amused cough, but didn't speak. The effect made him look more beautiful and dangerous than ever before.

"She can't be his fiancée!" The silvery woman barked, like a tuna doing an impression of a pine tree. "She can't be his fiancée!" She trumpeted again, "because he is _my_ husband!"

It was Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Jones - Mother of Dragons!

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Authors note: If anyone is interested in what exciting thing happens next, let me know and I can add more chapters. The real drama happens later on in the story, but I'm keeping it light-hearted early-on whilst I introduce the main characters. In the next chapter, Jacob is asked to officiate a game of charades between Dumbledore and The Hound, which predictably descends into horrific madness and violence, with a sexual element.

J. Jones (GandaldorePoggins) x

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Sneak Preview of the next chapter _:_

 _ **T** he game began with Dumbledore pulling a sensual face and waving his arms around his head like a helicopter._

 _"Old Twat." Guessed the Hound._

 _"You're supposed to say what you see." Advised Dondarrion._

 _The Hound scratched at his burnt face and frowned. "Old twat flapping his arms about."_

 _Beric sighed. "It's a film."_

 _"Old twat flapping his arms about: The movie."_

 _Dumbledore beamed and clapped his hands together. "Excellent, Sandor!" He cried. "Not many people have seen that film, I'm surprised you got it so quickly."_

 _The Hound snorted derisively. "Joffrey used to make me watch it every Christmas."_

 _"Did he now?" Asked Dumbledore, who was still windmilling his arms like a maniac._

 _"Yeah," said Sandor. "You were really good in it."_

 _Dumbledore blushed. "Oh Sandor, you're too kind." He giggled and threw in some Cossack kicks._

 _"No I mean it," said The Hound. "It's like you were born to play a silly old twat. I especially liked the incest scenes where you used that grapefruit to..."_

 _Beric coughed lightly and inclined his head towards the innocent faces of the gathered children. "Sandor..." he chided gently._

 _The Hound looked genuinely confused. "What's wrong with grapefruit?" He asked..._


	2. Chapter 2

" **B** igamy!" Neville gasped in horror.

"Not yet," smiled Jacob. "Maybe never, now." He kicked the shuddering form of Edith at his feet and she jerked awake. "Edith; meet my wife Daenerys."

Edith shook her head groggily. "Ye never told me ye were married Jacob." She looked heartbroken.

"Indeed he is!" Shouted Daenerys angrily. "So gather up thy excess skin and get away from my man!"

Edith looked at Jacob pleadingly.

"I'll figure this out." He assured her. "But for now, I'm afraid we have to part."

Edith burst into tears and started dribbling Dorito-powder onto the thick crimson rug. "Naw Jacob, naw!" She wailed. "I need ye, I need ye so bad!"

Jacob smiled at her fondly and turned to Neville, who had returned to working on the portrait. "Neville," he said. "I know you have a thing for Edith-"

"It's n-not true!" Stammered Neville.

"We've all seen you staring at her jubblies, Neville." Advised Dean Thomas kindly.

"I- I was... admiring her... shoes." Neville blurted out.

"Edith." Jacob turned to his woman. "You're with Neville now; until I can set things right."

Edith stopped vomiting immediately, and started beaming beatifically. She hopped up in one sprightly motion, the meat on her ankles wobbling like kebabs in a misaligned centrifuge. Sidling over to Neville, she began toying with his ear using one arthritic, libidinous finger. Neville's face turned as red as a skinned infant casually discarded on a 25,000 lumen spotlight; but he looked delighted.

Edith rummaged around in her knickers and pulled out a moist crack-pipe. "Have a toot on this and follow me," she cackled delightedly as she headed towards the boys dormitories.

Neville put down the easel and removed his beret carefully, before waddling after her. He was sucking in thick jets of billowing white smoke as if he were trying to subvert the election of a new Pope. Edith stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned to face him. "Did I ever tell ye, ye look just like me auld son 'arold?" She winked, giving the impression of a mini-stroke. "Let mummy show ye what good little boys get on their birfdays."

 **J** acob turned to Dany. "Hi honey," he said grinning.

"Don't hi me!" Cried the Mother of Dragons. "I want to know what you were doing with that decrepit old floozy-"

"I tink dat's what we all want ter know." Seamus interrupted Irishly, as the entire common room looked upon Jacob with unfriendly eyes. Edith was very popular in the tower, and the general feeling was that Jacob had treated her shamefully.

"Well, it's like this..." Jacob turned to the gathered throng. "I do love Edith, but I married too young. You have to understand I was just a callow youth straight out of the fighting pits of Norfolk, when Dany and I first met."

"Norfolk-" Shuddered Daenerys reliving the horrible memory. "Like a Lannister's bedchamber, only with more incest and fewer teeth."

"Well I'd just won my twelve-thousandth fight in a row," Jacob continued with a far-away expression on his face. "And I was getting tired from lack of sleep. It must have taken me a whole week to get through all twelve-thousand of Norfolk's best fighting men, and when they ran out of them I started on the womenfolk-" He paused, looking thoughtful. "At least, I think they were women..."

"I found him in my private chambers strangling Missandei with a pair of leather pants." Interjected Dany. "He was laughing and crying at the same time, surrounded by the bodies of all the Nor-folk he had killed. They were strung around his neck like trophies, all twelve-thousand of them-"

"Like I said," cut in Jacob. "I was callow and inexperienced and I didn't like Nor-folk."

"Who does?" Rhetoricised Dany, shivering with revulsion. "I fell in love with him instantly-" Her face grew soft at the memory.

Suddenly a thin voice piped up in the corner.

"What's that?" Asked Jacob, looking to see who had made the sound.

"I said: I lost my entire family in that massacre." Colin Creevey spoke again.

Jacob cast him a look of pure hate. "And how did you survive?" He asked sharply.

"I was on a foreign-exchange trip." Colin whispered. "You killed my Welsh counterpart."

Jacob's face fell at the news. "Argllchdd!" He cried out, horrified.

"That was him," confirmed Colin. "Short, bearded chap, about eight-or-nine years old."

"I turned him into a pair of trousers!" Jacob exclaimed, looking devastated. "Wore him to the Teen Choice Awards- This is your fault!" He rounded on Colin.

"Later, my love." Interjected Dany, holding out a steadying hand to belay Jacob's rising madness. "I came here because I have important news, but first we must all go down to the Great Hall; Dumbledore has called a meeting."

 **T** he Gryffindors filed into the Great Hall to the sound of early 90s Hip-Hop blaring out of a large Ghetto blaster on a stage at the far end of the room. Dumbledore was breakdancing on the dais, currently spinning on his back as they sat down at the long table reserved for their House. He jumped up suddenly, backwards baseball cap teetering dangerously atop his wispy argentine corn-rows. He was wearing a heavy gold chain and tight leather trousers that looked exactly like Jacob's, except Dumbledore's bulge was smaller. On his feet were red-and-white Nike High-Tops and on his face was a vision of lust and fury.

Dumbledore did the robot then effortlessly dropped into a headspin; everyone in the hall sighed quietly and tried not to let their boredom show.

"His record's fifteen hours non-stop." Dean whispered to Dany out of the corner of his mouth. "He makes us clap or we fail our exams."

Just then the room murmured half-hearted appreciation and began to applaud unenthusiastically as Snape skipped backwards and forwards across the stage in oversize dungarees and a Tommy Hilfiger boobtube, clapping his hands above his head to signify the students should do the same. As Dumbledore glided into the float, Snape awkwardly began two-stepping in and out of the headmaster's flailing legs, but got confused and tripped, trying - and failing - to turn it into a knee drop at the last minute. Snape landed on his face and the crowd heard his large hook-nose break on the hard wooden podium. He stifled an exclamation of pain and did the worm towards the exit - crying with rage and shame - as Dumbledore gyrated his pulsating groin towards the Ravenclaw second-years, waggling his tongue lasciviously.

Just then the sky clouded in the magical ceiling overhead, and lightning flashed across the upturned faces of the students. There was an almighty rumble and a furious wind began howling through the hall, knocking students from their chairs and scattering them across the floor. Dumbledore was too busy concentrating on his yo-yo tricks to notice anything amiss, he walked the dog obliviously as a sudden, blinding light rent the middle of the room and the air boomed with a deafening shudder.

"Right on time." Smiled Dany, as she looked at the Hello Ser Pounce watch on wrist.

Jacob blinked his eyes as his vision slowly returned and the room reassembled itself into familiar shapes around him. Familiar that is, except for two egregious exceptions at the centre of the dissipating smoke from the unexpected discharge. It was Beric Donarrion - Lightning Lord come from the sky, and glowering next to him was The Hound!

" **B** eric!" Cried Dumbledore delightedly, looking up at last. "You got my invitations?"

Dondarrion sighed. "Four times a week for the last fifteen years." He said wearily.

"And you finally made it!" Cried Dumbledore. "How wonderful; I was just getting warmed up."

An almost imperceptible groan echoed around the room.

Dumbledore made a small frown and covering his mouth with his hand, started coughing.

"Cough-cough-Exams-cough-cough." He spluttered, fooling no-one.

Everyone clapped politely. Dumbledore beamed at the visitors and opened his arms in welcome, bobbing his head in time to the music which was still pumping out of the boom-box on the stage.

"There's no time for that Albus." Dondarrion sighed again, looking sad and weary. "We come bearing vital tidings from the Lord of Light, about matters which threaten to engulf every one of us in their inexorable maw."

Dumbledore pulled a small thesaurus from his sleeve and rifled through its pages. After about a minute of this, he gasped dramatically and looked Dondarrion in his one good eye. "Come again?"

The Lightning Lord sighed sadly and opened his mouth to explain-

"It means we're up crap creek without a paddle." Growled The Hound.

Dumbledore dropped to his knees. "Oh my God," he exclaimed through ashen lips. "It's finally happened, hasn't it? The thing we all feared?"

Beric nodded his head sadly.

"Snape's released his mixtape!" Dumbledore laughed. "Psyche!" He called to the side of the stage where Snape was still weeping in a pool of his own snotters and blood.

"This is serious Albus." Beric whispered through clenched teeth.

Dumbledore's long body quivered with mirth. "So it is Snape's mixtape," he tittered. "If you consider Demi Lovato a serious-"

Snape let out a wail of artistic frustration from the sidelines. The Hound made a strange, strangled sound that might have been a laugh. Dumbledore began to pop-it-and-lock-it with a satisfied expression shining out of his kindly old face.

"Albus!" Cried Dondarrion, losing his temper. "Volde-"

"Charades!" Cried Dumbledore, shutting off the music with a wave of his elder wand.

"Come again?" Asked Beric.

Duumbledore beamed around the room. "Let's have a game of charades!" He exclaimed. "If I win, you have to watch me breakdance until I say you can leave; and if you win, you can tell me whatever it is that you think is so important." He raised his bushy eyebrows expectantly. "Deal?"

Beric sighed wearily. "Yes, I suppose." He looked Dumbledore in the eye. "It's a deal."

 **T** he game began with Dumbledore making a winding camera motion and holding up eight long fingers. He pulled a sensual face and waved his arms around his head like a helicopter.

"Old twat." Guessed the Hound.

"You're supposed to say what you see." Advised Dondarrion.

"Old twat." Said the Hound again, shrugging.

"No." Said Dondarrion sadly. "You're meant to say what he's doing."

The Hound scratched at his burnt face and frowned. "Old twat flapping his arms about."

Beric sighed. "It's a film."

"Old twat flapping his arms about: The movie."

Dumbledore beamed and clapped his hands together. "Excellent, Sandor!" He cried. "Not many people have seen that film, I'm surprised you got it so quickly."

The Hound snorted derisively. "Joffrey used to make me watch it every Christmas."

"Did he now?" Asked Dumbledore, who was still windmilling his arms like a maniac.

"Yeah," said Sandor. "You were really good in it."

Dumbledore blushed. "Oh Sandor, you're too kind." He giggled.

"No I mean it," said The Hound. "It's like you were born to play a silly old twat. I especially liked the bestiality scenes where you used that grapefruit to..."

Beric coughed lightly and inclined his head towards the innocent faces of the gathered children. "Sandor..." he chided lightly.

The Hound looked genuinely perplexed. "What's wrong with grapefruit?" He asked.

Dumbledore beamed down at them, adjusting his backwards cap to a more fetching angle. "I think Lord Beric refers to the jiggery-pokery with the animals, Sandor." He explained. "It was indeed a sad business, but I was young and I needed the money; they just seemed to lose the will to live..." He trailed off.

"The DVD commentary said you got through fifteen aardvarks, three storks and a unicorn." The Hound counted them off on his large fingers.

"Yes," replied Dumbledore. "That was the official total. But let's just say that more than a few voles went missing on set, and the local trout were strangely depleted for many years afterwards-"

" _Albus!"_ Boomed the sonorous voice of Beric Dondarrion, cutting off Dumbledore mid-sentence. "We have travelled long and far, by dangerous paths and terrors untold, to warn you that Lord Voldemort has returned; and this time he has teamed-up with The Night King! They are planning to unleash the army of the dead against Hogwarts, and they arrive next week!"

In the silence that followed his pronouncement, you could have heard a pin drop.

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Authors note: Thanks everyone for the kind reviews, they're the best I've ever had! There's lots more drama and excitement to come as the story progresses, don't you worry! I'm glad you're enjoying reading it as much as I have been enjoying writing it. Godbless everybody, and stay safe!

J. Jones (GandaldorePoggins) x


	3. Chapter 3

" **B** ummer." Said Dumbledore lightly, executing a shoddy Airflare.

"This is serious, Albus." Sighed Beric. "The entire fate of the world is in our hands."

"Jacob will sort it out." Dumbledore called, toprocking in the centre of the dais. "He's the chosen one."

Dondarrion turned to Jacob. "Is this true?" He asked, sceptically.

"Yeah, kind of." Said Jacob. "I mean, I will sort it out. But I'm not the chosen one, or anything."

The Hound snorted. "So why did that prancing old git say you were?"

Jacob shrugged. "Every time Dumbledore wants to get out of doing work, he makes up a fake prophecy and tells people it's their destiny. Last week he had Neville trimming his ear hair, because of a prophecy he 'read' in a bran muffin. The week before he had Snape bent over the-"

"But can you do it?" Beric interrupted. "Can you help save Hogwarts from the army of the dead?"

"I can try." Said Jacob wearily. "But first I need to visit Filius and see what he's got for me."

Jacob strode purposefully out of the hall, with Beric and Sandor just two steps behind.

 **F** litwick answered the heavy oaken door on the second booming knock. He was perched in a special saddle on the back of an Old English Sheepdog, having lost both his legs to septicemia after cutting his finger on a rusty saxophone at a jazz festival in Poland. His room was a cluttered mess of complex diagrams, old blueprints and dangerous looking implements of torture and sexual deviancy. Pickled body parts adorned glass belljars on dusty wooden shelves, whilst prototype gimp suits hung from hooks in the ceiling. An iron maiden was propped up in one corner, with muffled screams echoing through the closed metal doors. Thumbscrews rattled on his acid-stained desk, as the maiden shook with repeated impacts from the unseen presence.

"Jacob!" He squealed pleasantly. "You've brought victims!"

"Guests." Jacob corrected. "This is Beric and The Hound." Jacob introduced his companions to the paraplegic midget.

The Hound looked Flickwick up and down in a quick, startled motion. "What the f- happened to you?" He exclaimed.

"Holiday accident." The small man explained. "I bought the wrong travel insurance and by the time I was able to secure the funds for my inoculation, it was too late." He looked at his stumps sadly.

"I'd rather be dead." Said The Hound in disgust.

Flitwick brightened. "It's not so bad," he chirped. "With Merlin here to carry me around-" He patted the long-haired sheepdog fondly. "I barely notice I've no longer got any legs."

"You've lost your legs?" The Hound gasped. "Bloody hell, I hadn't noticed, you weird little dog-bothering sod."

"Filius, you've been a great help to me in the past." Jacob broke in. "I need your help again - it's looking pretty grim this time - do you have anything new for me?"

Flitwick frowned and rummaged around in his studded denim waistcoat, before pulling out an oddly-shaped wand with a flourish. It looked almost like a mushroom, with a long pale stalk and bulbous red prominance at the tip. It began vibrating in his hand. "Whoops!" The midget cried, thrusting it back into his gillet and rummaging around again. Eventually he pulled out a spherical device, with no apparent markings on its smooth body. "Here we go!" He squealed, handing the orb to Jacob. "It's the deadliest weapon I've ever invented."

"Perfect." Smiled Jacob, running his fingers over the smooth metal of the ball.

Flitwick frowned. "It's quite untested, I'm afraid. I was just going to try it out when you knocked."

"Well what are we waiting for?" Beric said, impatiently.

 **F** litwick led them through a small door in the corner of the room, jostling up and down on Merlin's back. They walked through a dark, narrow coridor before coming out into a dank dungeon with green slime on the walls and several of the most hideous, foul humans any of them had ever seen chained to the walls.

"These are the test subjects." Flitwick chirped. "If all goes well, they should be obliterated in an instant."

"But wait!" Cried Jacob in alarm. "We can't kill innocent people, however ugly and disgusting they undoubtedly are."

"These aren't innocent people." Flitwick tittered. "They're Nor-folk."

"Nor-folk?" Jacob's voice ran cold. "Nor-folk." He said again, tasting the foul savour of the word. "And this weapon... does it hurt?"

"They won't feel a thing." Assured Flitwick in an avuncular manner.

Jacob scowled, fury etched across his handsome features. "That won't do," he said. "That won't do at all. Make it hurt. Make them all hurt."

Flitwick told them it would take another four days to update the device to Jacob's specifications. Beric protested that they only had a week to defeat the army of the dead, but Jacob had been insistent. His hatred for Nor-folk knew no reason, or bounds; and he was determined that they all suffer brutally. On the second day of waiting, Flitwick had brought a small bearded man with a mohawk, ripped t-shirt and a silver nose stud down to the dungeon, introducing him as a second-cousin who had come to visit. It was Tyrion Lannister!

 **T** he Hound turned to the cousins in disbelief. "I never knew you were a damn Lannister." He spat.

"Of course I am," said Tyrion. "What did you think I was."

"I thought you were a figment of my imagination." Answered The Hound, still staring at the dwarf in disbelief.

Tyrion frowned. "Why on earth would you think that?" He asked.

"Because of the way you used to knock Joffrey about and rub your dick on his lips when he was sleeping. Exactly like my fantasies."

"Joffrey..." Shuddered Tyrion. "What a little tosser. Do you remember the time he tried to grow a moustache?"

The Hound barked out a sudden, harsh laugh. "It was so translucent, it made Nearly Headless Nick look corporeal."

"I've seen more substance in Theon Greyjoy's underpants." Chuckled Tyrion, capering around the room, before doing a handstand on a nearby rack then somersaulting to his feet.

"That was a little... odd." The Hound scratched his stubbly chin. "Not really in keeping with your stereotype-defying character."

"I'm an early draft." Tyrion advised. "I don't really settle down into my final form for another few chapters."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Exclaimed The Hound. "If you're not a figment of my imagination, that means..."

Everyone in the room turned to look at him expectantly. Some of the Nor-folk gasped, but were silenced by a few brutal slashes from Jacob, who was brandishing a box-cutter like a maladroit warehouse attendant with a blatant disregard for company health and safety procedures.

The Hound looked embarrassed. "That means- t-that night, when you crawled into my bed and started licking my..."

"All real," lusted Tyrion. "It was the noblest night of my life."

"And mine!" cried The Hound, embracing Tyrion and kissing him passionately.

Beric sighed wearily. "My Lord Tyrion." He began.

Tyrion turned from The Hound regretfully and inclined his head towards Dondarrion, but didn't speak.

"You look a little- ah, different to when last I saw you, just before I rode Northwards to confront The Mountain. Have you cut your hair?"

Tyrion looked pleased. "I'm glad you noticed." He said, running his stubby fingers through the green mohawk that sat on his head like an enormous hedge growing out of an old potato. "Robbed of my birthright by my father's indifference, I have become a wandering punk."

The Hound pushed him away violently. "You're no punk!" He snorted indignantly.

"Yes I am." Tyrion looked hurt by the accusation.

"Ok then," said The Hound. "What's your favourite Sex Pistols song?"

Tyrion looked panicked for a moment, then smiled. "I don't have a favourite, I like them all."

"Pah!" The Hound snorted. "OK then, what's the name of the seminal 1998 album by Refused?"

"Ha!" Tyrion raised a finger in the air. "I know this one! It's- It's called... Relationship of Command!"

The Hound burst out laughing, a horrible, throaty sound. "That's At the Drive In, you little faker-"

"And technically, they're post-hardcore." Piped up Flitwick, who had come down to see what all the shouting was about.

"Same difference." Said Tyrion, shrugging defensively.

The entire room groaned and put their heads in their hands, even the Nor-folk, who were chained to the walls by the wrists, ankles and tongues.

"Well- I'm more of a punk musician, than an aficionado." Stammered Tyrion, turning red and fidgeting with his studded-metal collar.

"Oh really?" Asked Beric interestedly. "Then what's your favourite chord?"

Tyrion began sweating profusely, his mismatched eyes darted from side to side like vigorous snowmen absolutely smashing the beep test. "Um..." He played for time. "F..."

A few eyebrows raised appreciatively around the room, but Tyrion hadn't noticed.

"F..." He said again, opening and closing his mouth like a hazard on a miniature golf course. "F... 9sus4!" He beamed around the room.

"That's a bloody jazz chord!" Spat The Hound.

"He's right you know." Chimed in Flitwick, staring down at his stumps wistfully.

"Let's give him the benefit of the doubt." Said Beric sadly. "Tyrion, perhaps you can tell us your favourite chord progression instead?"

"Um!" Cried Tyrion, looking around the room frantically, as if searching for some means of escape. "Ah- well- it's... C sharp major- um, into F sharp major- then down to D sharp minor... and, er- back up to G sharp major."

"Fucking reggae." Exclaimed Beric in disgust. "You're into jazz-reggae, you twat."

Tyrion planted his feet obstinately. "I'm a punk." He said.

"You're a poser." The Hound sneered. "You wouldn't know punk if it pulled out your guts, tied them around your feet and started strumming power chords using your cock as a plectrum."

"Wha- what?" Stuttered Tyrion. "What's a power chord?"

Everyone in the room groaned again and some of the Nor-folk began spitting at Tyrion in disgust.

Just then Daenerys Stormborn Jones, Mother of Dragons burst into the room. She was panting and her glimmering chest heaved with exertion.

"Thank heavens I've found you!" She cried out frantically. "Something terrible has happened."

"Not that thing we all feared?" Squeaked Flitwick, in alarm.

"Yes, exactly that!" Answered Dany.

"Snape's released his mixtape!" Gasped Flitwick, nearly falling off Merlin in his alarm.

"No!" Yelled Daenerys desperately. "It's the Night King and Voldemort; they've taken Hogsmeade!"


	4. Chapter 4

" **S** queak!" Flitwick squeaked, falling off Merlin in his shock. "But the weapon- it won't be ready for another two days!"

Jacob swore and punched one balled fist into his palm. "We can't let them get away with this." He exclaimed, scowling.

"But Voldemort and the Night King together are so powerful," sighed Beric. "What-"

"Screw the Night King!" Screamed Jacob, angry spittle flying from his open mouth. "It's these Nor-folk I'm worried about-" He gestured wildly at the moaning figures on the wall. "They have to suffer!"

"If Voldemort takes over the school," Beric frowned. "Who knows what he'll do with the Nor-folk? He might set them free and press-gang them into his army."

"You're right!" Jacob exclaimed. "It's too big a risk, we can't allow these swine back into the world, we just can't!" He kicked one of the Nor-folk as hard as he could, a child of perhaps three, or four years old. Its skull smashed back against the cold, hard stone of the wall, making a sound like eggshells cracking. The body twitched and juddered for a few seconds before the sound of rattling chains stopped suddenly, as the head lolled forward; dead. Brain juice dribbled out of one ear like errant thoughts on the lam.

The Hound looked thoughtful for a moment, then opened his mouth to speak. "I have an idea." He said, nodding his head. "Yes... It's so crazy, it might just work."

 **T** en minutes later Jacob rushed into the Gryffindor common room, panting from the exertion of running all the way from Flitwick's dungeon.

"I need a volunteer!" He cried. "I need someone to help me infiltrate the army of the dead!"

Seamus jumped up and raised his hand in the air. "Count me in, I was born ter do this." He shouted.

Jacob frowned and looked a bit embarrassed. "Have we got anyone a bit less... Irish?" He asked the room.

Silence answered him.

"I need someone who can conceivably pass for one of the army of the dead." Jacob continued. "There's no time for fancy spells or makeup, we'll just have to rip our clothes a bit and hope for the best."

"You need someone who looks like a corpse?" Asked Ginny Weasley thoughtfully. "Have you, er- seen Neville lately?"

Just then Neville appeared at the top of the stairs to the dormitories. He looked ghastly; his cheeks were sunken hollows of depravity and he'd discarded his school robes in favour of black skinny jeans and an electric-pink fishnet wife-beater.

"Has anyone got any tampons?" He looked around the room with dead eyes.

Jacob frowned. "Edith's long past the menopause," he said suspiciously. "You better not be cheating on her."

Neville cast his haunted eyes to the ground and muttered, "they're for me."

Jacob laughed, "Edith's introduced you to 'Long-Tall Sally', has she?"

Neville nodded his head slightly, without raising his downcast eyes from the patterned carpet. "We tried using Edith's anti-fungal foot ointment as lubrication, but I'm still pretty torn up. I think I might be bleeding on the inside."

"There's no time to worry about that now!" Said Jacob quickly. "Neville I need you to come with me into great peril, and I can't guarantee we'll both make it back."

Neville finally looked Jacob in the eye. "I'm in," he said. "And if I don't come back... all the better."

The wind howled around the castle walls as Jacob and Neville snuck into the secret passage that led to Honeydukes, guarded by the one-eyed witch. Jacob had put on some concealer that'd he'd borrowed from Lavender Brown, and in his newly-tattered clothes he made a passable imitation of a dead warrior. They'd had to put some blusher on Neville and a small amount of lipstick, as in his natural condition he had looked far too ghoulish even for the army of the dead. He shuffled through the secret passage moaning.

"The army of the dead are generally silent." Jacob advised Neville. "So you don't need to do that impression."

"Impression?" Asked Neville, as he shuffled along wincing.

They went in silence the rest of the way, before emerging into the basement of Honeydukes. It was mercifully empty and they had no problem quietly getting up the wooden staircase and into the shop beyond. There they saw Bellatrix Lestrange noisily pleasuring herself with a sticky candy-cane the size of a baby's arm. She was hissing.

" _Yes_ Draco! _Yes_ Draco! _No_ Draco! Oh _no_ Draco! Not _that_ way Draco! Oh _go_ _on_ then Draco! _My..._ What are _you_ doing here Lucius? Oh _yes_ Draco- _and Lucius_!"

Bellatrix didn't open her eyes for the entire half-hour they masturbated each other all over her face, although she did sneak a few peeks when she thought no one was looking.

Tying the cords on his supple - but now tragically ripped - leather trousers, Jacob left the shop and shambled out into the dark Hogsmeade street to mingle among the army of the dead. A rotting, blank face stared at him, forlorn of any dignity or residual humanity. It was Neville. Jacob inclined his head slightly to indicate that the miserable deviant should follow him up the street, as he moved off in the direction of the Three Broomsticks, trying not to think too much about all the silent, dead faces surrounding them on all sides.

"What's going on at the school?" Neville hissed through clenched buttocks. "What are those large boxes on the walls? Who are all those people-"

But he was cut off by a sudden flurry of movement, as the doors to the Three Broomsticks flew open and out into the damp night air stepped Voldemort!

 **T** he Dark Lord was dressed in a pinstripe maroon zoot suit topped with an acid green trilby / open-scarf combination. In his right hand he held a shiny black cane, adorned with a gleaming silver metal skull. He seemed to have grown a beard since last Jacob had seen him, but it was threadbare and exclusively on his lower neck.

"They never learn." Voldmort said to Fenrir Greyback, as he studied the preparations furiously underway on the Hogwarts battlements. "They will join us, or die."

Greyback licked his slavering chops and definitely didn't have a wand.

Just then a deafening peal of feedback rent the night air and enormous spotlights began beaming out pools of brilliant, white light from the school walls. They lit up an impromptu stage that had been quickly erected on the parapet, enormous stacked speakers towered majestically on either side. Dumbledore moonwalked onto the stage in his hi-tops (a trick he had learned from Gandalf in return for giving out sexual favours to Frodo,) and raised the squealing microphone to his lips.

"Are you ready to rock?" He asked the assembled corpses, but no one spoke a word.

"It's your boy Dr-D, and repping for the potions crew tonight is Snape Dogg y'all!"

A few boos went up as Snape skipped on stage in his oversize dungarees and began body popping.

"I want to introduce y'all to a very special friend of ours, all the way from Casterly Rock, WEST-ER-OS!"

Jacob turned to Neville and winked. "Lets see how long they can stand this." He whispered, just audibly. "I give it half an hour before they turn tail and run."

Neville trembled and managed a weak smile through his thin, blue lips.

"It's Tiny-T!" Blasted Dumbledore. "With his jazz-reggae fusion, give it up y'all! Yo-yo-yo!" He pumped his fist.

Everyone was silent, but then a whoop went up nearby. Jacob looked around frantically, 'please God no' he thought as his eyes sought out the source of the sound. Tyrion began strumming his Strat up on the stage, a staccato rhythm with the emphasis on the upstroke.

"Whoop-whoop!" Cried the voice again. "Brrrrrap!"

This time there was no mistaking the source, it was Voldemort; And he was loving it!

"Wake up in de morning, lick-ing de bacon..." Tyrion warbled in a Jamaican patois, which made the word bacon came out sounding like 'beer-can'.

Jacob put his head in his hands and tried to fight off a rising despair. Tyrion's music was the shittest thing he had ever heard, his ears felt violated, he wanted to scrub his soul with lye and wire wool. Just a few feet away, Voldemort nodded along appreciatively, stroking his neckbeard in time to the rhythm. Midway through the song, Voldemort began clapping politely at a particularly fruity chord change.

"The Jazz clap!" Hissed Jacob to Neville. "He's a bloody jazz-twat. We're doomed."

Just then the power went out with a pop. A large cheer went up from inside the school walls. Dumbledore rushed on stage looking flustered and placed his wand to his wrinkly old neck.

"Sonorous!" He bellowed. "It appears one of the students has sabotaged the electrics by throwing themselves headfirst into the generator from a great height; may Bem rest in peace."

Another cheer.

"In the meantime, while we wait for it to be fixed, please enjoy the comedy stylings of Mr Draco Malfoy!"

An audible groan went up from behind the battlements, but Voldemort was practically hopping from foot-to-foot, rubbing his hands together with glee.

Draco came on stage with his long shorts and tank-top flapping in the wind. His pale hair streaked out from his forehead like vigorous seaweed in a rip-tide.

"Thank you - Thank you!" Cried Malfoy. "Thank you all for coming out tonight." He raised a hand to his brow and surveyed the army of the dead with an exaggerated interest. "Lord," he said. "I haven't seen so many horrors all in one place since the last time Snape went speed dating."

A rimshot rang out from the side of the stage, as a visibly shaken Snape played a small drumkit, weeping.

"Though being fair-" continued Malfoy. "You smell nicer, and most of you have better teeth."

Voldemort guffawed and clapped his hand together with delight. "It's funny because it's true." He chortled.

"Seriously though- seriously," Malfoy went on. "Snape will be delighted to see so many familiar faces here tonight. As most of you know, he's a very considerate man."

Snape looked up hopefully, drying his nose on his greasy boob tube.

"Yes, Snape's a very considerate man." Draco repeated. "A very considerate lover. I happen to know that he makes sure all his partners have fresh flowers on their first date."

Snape smiled weakly, it was the happiest Jacob had ever seen him look.

"That's how he knows which of the graves are recent." Malfoy made a shooting motion with forefinger and thumb, winking.

Snape wailed anew as he beat out a 'BA-DUM-TIS' on the drumkit.

"Look, I'm not saying Snape is shady." Said Malfoy. "But his idea of foreplay is prising the lid off a coffin with a crowbar."

Voldemort shook his head from side to side with glee. "That's so Snape!" He giggled.

Malfoy paused a moment. "They don't just call him _maggot dick_ because he's hung like an acorn, if you know what I mean."

Dumbledore's magically enhanced voice boomed bone-rattling laughter for miles around.

"Now I'm not saying Snape's filthy-" Malfoy went on with relish, warming to his task. "But his dick cheese is veinier than an old stilton- and what about that Dumbledore eh?"

Malfoy didn't notice Dumbledore's face turn cloudy over on the side of the stage; he continued unabashed.

"Now I'm not saying Dumbledore's a slut-"

"Draco..." Whispered Dumbledore, but only Malfoy out of everyone assembled seemed not to hear.

"Yeah, I'm not saying Dumbledore's a slut-" Malfoy repeated. "But we all know that isn't Stilton he's picking out of his teeth when he's doing the walk of shame back from the potions lab at 5 o'clock on a Sunday morning. And has anyone been to his office recently?" Malfoy snorted. "The new password's _meat lollipop,_ he named it after his favourite flavour."

He did a little dance on the stage, obviously feeling pleased with himself. "Now I'm not saying Dumbledore's been around," he went on. "But his idea of a trusting relationship is going bareback with the entire Durmstrang Quidditch team in the alley behind the Hog's Hea-"

A dazzling explosion blew Malfoy off the stage; his faint cry of surprise could just be heard as he sailed off into the distance, growing smaller with each passing second. Dumbledore slipped his wand back up his sleeve as Snape hit one last rimshot.

"And now-" Dumbledore boomed. "Professor McGonagall will entertain us with a wondrous feat of derring-do."

McGonagall slipped onstage wearing a Lycra catsuit, carrying six enormous, brutal-looking throwing knives. Snape was dragged from his drumkit kicking and screaming and tied by the hands and wrists to a revolving wooden wheel, that spun him on the stage like a fleshy sped-up clock with too many hands. He bawled and sobbed to be let go so fiercely that in the end Flitwick had to tie a ball-gag into his mouth, to muffle him.

"I can barely watch!" Hissed Voldemort, taking in the scene with a greedy, open-eyed leer.

There was a drumroll, which was odd because there was no one sitting at the drums.

McGonagall threw one knife- two- three- four- five- six! Six knives. They embedded themselves in the revolving wood around Snape's arms, legs and head.

"Boo!" Jeered Voldermort. "Hiss!" He looked outraged. "She had six tries, and she missed with every one! Boo! Get off! Rubbish!" He hectored.

The rest of the crowd joined in. "Boo!" They cried. "Rubbish!"

A silent tear rolled down Snape's greasy cheek.

Just then, some movement from the Three Broomsticks caught Jacob's attention. The doors swung open and out stepped The Night King; and he was arm in arm with Hermione!


	5. Chapter 5

"Gasp!" Gasped Neville, finally roused to an emotion. "Jacob, we have to rescue Hermione!"

"Quiet!" Hissed Jacob, looking around at the army of the dead. "Does she look like she needs saving to you?"

Hermione was fondling the odd stalagmites that grew out of the Night King's brilliant blue cranium, and she was tittering coyly as he waxed lyrical on some unheard subject. The Night King was wearing a feminist frequency t-shirt and carrying a small peach man-bag on his right shoulder. Jacob took a huge risk by edging closer to listen in on their conversation.

"And then of course there's the issue of women in tech." Hermione said, primly.

"We will force them into tech." The Night King said, in a campy baritone.

Hermione bit her bottom lip. "But.." She hesitated. "What about the ones who don't want to work in tech, what about the women who're happy being mothers and homemakers?"

The Night King adjusted the strap on his fetching man-bag and frowned. "They must go in the death camps with all the other misogynists."

Hermione let out a small gasp of relief. "Thank goodness!" She cried. "They're just too dangerous to be left alone. And after all, it's-"

"For the greater good." The Night King chirped.

"For the greater good." Hermione echoed resolutely. "You're a true ally Barnabus."

Just then Voldemort sidled up, twizzling his neckbeard. "M'lady." He addressed Hermione, performing a half-bow.

The Night King snorted in disgust and Hermione turned green with fury. "Did you just assume my gender?" Xe hissed at Voldemort.

"Come now my dear," said Voldemort in a patronising tone. "Don't get your pretty little head all worked up about such things; let me take you out for a crab dinner and show you how a true gentleman" - He threw a sideways glance full of shade at The Night King - "treats a ravishing princess, such as yourself."

Hermione covered her mouth with her hand as thick chunks of vomit forced their way through her fingers, then she ran into The Three Broomsticks wailing about micro-aggressions.

The Night King turned to Voldemort and gave him a look of pure disgust. Voldemort opened his mouth to speak, but Barnabus made a sassy motion and thrust his open palm into Voldemort's face. "Talk to the hand, slitnose, cause the face ain't listening." He strode after Hermione, tight butt wiggling in his fetching blue chaps.

Voldemort punched his fist into his hand and scowled. Turning to Greyback he said: "God I hate all this subterfuge. When Hogwarts is mine, I'll enjoy destroying that blue idiot! He thinks he's going to create a feminist paradise on earth, but little does he know I plan on betraying him in order to resurrect the dying art of chivalry across the land!" He tipped his trilby to Bellatrix, who was at that moment skipping-by, swinging a striped candy cane which seemed to have a large toffee apple wedged on the bottom.

"Neville!" Hissed Jacob, but it was too late.

Neville, with a dead-eyed stare, had whipped out his wart-infested jingle-bone and just stood in the street jacking it; oblivious to the danger all around him. One pale hand slipped down the back of his ripped jeans and began fiddling with his tattered bunghole, the loud squelching drawing enquiring looks from the dead ones that surrounded them on all sides.

"A spy!" Cried Voldemort, sounding delighted. "Take him inside." He ordered the surrounding corpses, who sprung into action.

Jacob stifled a cry as Neville was grabbed on all sides by decaying flesh. He was just reaching for his wand when a steadying hand closed over arm and a reassuring voice whispered:

 _"Come now, my merry one,_

 _Ring-ding a dillo,_

 _Can't help poor Neville out,_

 _If you're captured also!"_

It was Tom Bombadil!

Jacob desperately fought the madness that rose inside him, screaming at him to take on Voldemort and the entire army of the dead, and somehow succeeded. Tom's calm presence seemed to soothe his troubled soul and belay the desperation that threatened to engulf him. He watched his friend being hoisted away on the shoulders of the dead, oblivious to everything that was happening around him. Neville's fist had disappeared entirely up his gaping sphincter and he was moaning gently as he pumped his arm.

"I'm a good boy Sally, I am a good boy. Give it to us precious; it's my birthday-"

He disappeared into The Three Broomsticks and the doors swung shut with a clunk of finality.

Fifteen minutes later Jacob rode back into Hogwarts behind Tom on the back of Fatty Lumpkin. The stage was being disassembled by Snape, as Dumbledore watched from the sidelines criticising his every move. Snape self-consciously brushed away tears with the back of his hand, whilst swinging around his greasy spanner like a drunk uncle at a nudist wedding.

Tyrion munched on a large piece of steaming meat by side of the podium.

"Where did you get that?" Asked McGonagall, rubbing her toned, lycra-covered belly hungrily.

"The barbecue area, over there." Tyrion pointed at a smoking pile of flesh over by the speakers.

McGonagall sidled over to the charred meat, sniffing at it like a fart detective at the scene of a follow-through. She seemed to agonise over her decision for a moment, then made a grab for a leg, saying: "Waste not, want not." It pulled away from the smouldering mass with a wet plop. She tore into the dripping flesh greedily.

"Sorry Bem," she explained. "But Severus' finger-buffet was singularly inedible-"

Snape wailed from somewhere underneath the stage.

"-and you just looked so tasty. And trying to catch a good meal around these parts is like... is like-" She searched for the right words.

"Is like trying to catch smoke... like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands?" The pile of meat offered helpfully, before exhaling one last rattling, agonised breath and finally dying.

Everyone looked at each other with bemused expressions and shrugged.

"No idea what that was all about." Said McGonagall, giving voice to the thought on everyone's lips. She kicked the sizzling mass of flesh and bone with brutal force and everyone cheered.

Jacob frowned and looked at Tom. "I'm a bit... surprised to see you here; didn't anyone tell you this was a Harry Potter/Song of Ice and Fire crossover?" He asked, momentarily breaking character.

Tom whistled merrily, bobbing up and down on the pony's sturdy back. "Tom doesn't know about that." He exclaimed cheerfully. "He only goes where he's needed, and he heard you were in trouble as he was picking water lillies for Goldberry over in the haunted forest." He gestured towards the gnarled wood - almost black in the twilight - with only the canopy visible above a low-lying mist.

"But how did you know I was in trouble?" Jacob asked.

"Oh ho ho!" Chuckled Tom. "Firenze was spying on you with a pair of magical binoculars. He's been stalking you for months, so old Tom understands."

Jacob was momentarily taken aback. "So that explains the piles of manure that have been appearing at the foot of my bed every morning!" He said with sudden enlightenment. "I thought Seamus was forgetting to put on his big-boy diaper again!"

"And by now you'll realise that wasn't ectoplasm all over your sheets." Laughed Tom. "And that funny taste in your mouth, like French onion soup-"

" _Tick tock, horse cock,_

 _Deep-throat-my-hearty!_ "

Dumbledore heard the stout little man's singing and looked up hopefully. "Tom? Tom Bombadil?"

"Hullo Dr-D." Tom hailed in his singsong voice. "You're allowed out at night again, are you?"

"The electronic tag came off last week." Dumbledore boasted. "But I'm still not allowed within 500 metres of the local zoo. Terrible misunderstanding-" He shook his head wistfully. "I was performing the Heimlich manoeuvre on that aardvark, ask anyone..."

"Tom believes you, though thousands wouldn't." Bombadil winked.

"Is- er, Gandalf with you?" Dumbledore asked hopefully.

"With me?" Mused Tom. "No."

Dumbledore's face fell with disappointment.

"Last I heard he was racing up the M74 on his moped." Bombadil went on.

Dumbledore beamed and rubbed his hands together with relish. "I better iron my lucky outfit," he grinned.

Just then Voldemort's high, cold voice magically filled their heads. "Some of you may wish to fight." He crooned. "Some of you may even think it wise. But every drop of magical blood spilled is a waste-" He paused for effect. "Except for Snape's."

Snape let out a strangled cry of despair as he inched across the party-disassembled stage, bent double under the weight of a gigantic speaker.

Dumbledore nodded. "He's got a point," he said reasonably. "No magic!" He suddenly bellowed at Snape, who had snuck out his wand when he thought no one was looking. "You need the exercise, mr flabby bottom!"

"Surrender to me within the next hour, and I will let you live." Voldemort continued. "But defy me... and die."

"Dumbledore!" Cried Jacob suddenly. "I have important news- the worst kind of treachery!"

But Dumbledore had run after Snape, whipping at his calves with a rolled up towel, tittering like a cartoon chipmunk.

Tom grabbed Jacob by the elbow. "You'll find no succour there, my lad." He said knowingly. "Come doll, merry doll, let's take ourselves to the Gryffindor common room and come up with a proper plan, er- my hearty!"

Jacob walked into the Gryffindor common room ashen-faced, Edith looked hopefully behind his shoulder for Neville. Jacob shook his head almost imperceptibly and Edith's face fell like a thunderbolt. She ran up to the dormitories wailing, her AIDS medicating clinking against the syringes in her pockets as she took the stairs two at a time.

"Tom!" Cried Beric, who was sitting with his feet up by the fire, reading Ready Player One. "I haven't seen you since..."

"Let me see..." Mused Bombadil. "Sam Gamgee's trial?"

"That was it!" Said Dondarrion, clicking his fingers. "My how he wailed!"

"A sad business, derry-doll, merry-doll, hop-along-my-darling!" Tom replied, laughing. "I didn't want to give evidence against him, but what could old Tom do?"

"He was guilty as sin." Beric shook his head fondly. "I still say we should have offered him up to the Lord of Light."

Tom wagged a reproachful finger. "Naughty, naughty!" He scolded. "There's no precedent for that in Shire law, as you know well!"

"Bless the little heathens." Said Dondarrion wistfully. "And how's the fracking operation coming along?"

Bombadil rubbed his hands together with glee. "Old Tom's consortium has hit a rich vein of shale gas," he hopped from one foot to the other. "The Westfarthing has made both myself and my backers very rich indeed, tra-la-la-lillo!" He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. "It's a wasteland now of course; makes the Plateau of Gorgaroth look like Rivendell."

Beric inclined his heat to Bombadil's yellow feet. "Nice boots Tom... they look expensive."

"The best that money can buy!" Chuckled the stout little man, producing a thick wedge of fifties from his bright blue jacket and fanning it under Dondarrion's nose. "The water table's poisoned for miles around, even the elves at the Grey Havens are getting sick!" He laughed. "I heard the children are going bald from all the chemicals we pump into the earth, but we've bought off the government so there's nothing the pointy-eared arseholes can do about it; except whinge of course!"

"What's new there?" Laughed Beric, looking faintly disgusted. "Oh Gilthoniel, sweet Elbereth!" He mocked. "Miserable shits are always whinging about something-or-other that happened about nine-thousand years ago; might as well give them something more recent to moan about."

"Ho ho!" Tom's kindly eyes crinkled as he bent double with mirth. He made a drinking motion then began slapping his head with a wide-eyed expression, in imitation of the children he had poisoned for easy profit.

Jacob interrupted the reminiscing pair with a cough. "Aren't we forgetting something, gentlemen?"

Tom shook his head as if interrupted from a particularly pleasant daydream. "Right you are derry-doll, merry-doll, hop-along my Jacob!" He turned to Beric. "It appears-"

But just then Hermione burst into the common room, sobbing. Her face was swollen and puffy, and her eyes were rimmed redder than Edith's after an eight week binge. She kept touching her hands to her chest and wincing, as if something there pained her.

"Betrayed!" She screamed, looking around the room with wild eyes. "I've been betrayed! It's The Night King, he's coming... He's coming to kill us all!"


	6. Chapter 6

Jacob pointed an accusing finger at Hermione. "I saw you!" He cried. "I saw you consorting with the Night King!"

Hermione looked around the room guiltily. "I was led astray..." She tried to explain. "He had me under his thrall. Those blue chaps- I though he was an _ally_!"

Dany rose from her seat by the window, where she had been gazing out thoughtfully pondering the meaning of sudoku. "Thrall?" She said derisively. "Ally?" She snorted disgust. "You silly little girl!"

Hermione's face wavered and tears began dripping down her bloated cheeks.

"Now, now." Beric interjected kindly. "We haven't even heard what Hermione has to say, perhaps we should give her a chance to talk?"

Hermione looked up in wonder at being treated so fairly by a man.

"You said you were going to throw people in camps if they didn't want to work in tech!" Jacob denounced. "You were _laughing_ about it."

"I, er- don't remember saying that." Hermione dithered. "You- you must be mistaken." Her face turned red.

"No." Jacob spat. "I'm _not_ mistaken-"

But he was cut off by Seamus. "A woman is telling you her story." He said disgustedly. "Look at dose tears, you monster!"

Hermione brightened as the room came over to her side and started eyeing Jacob with filthy stares. "Yes, I'm a victim." She smiled tragically, putting on a brave face. "An innocent victim." She shook her head sadly.

Just then McGonagall ran into the common room, skidding to a halt in her skintight polyester onesie. She was wearing a finger bone through her nose and sucking an eyeball noisily, through artificially sharpened teeth.

"I came as soon as I heard, Hermione." The head of Gryffindor house sat on the arm of Hermione's chair and took her hand kindly.

"Hermione was just about to tell us how she ended up a chattel of the Night King." Jacob said, bitterly.

"Ooh my dear, was it bad?" Gasped McGonagall, stroking Hermione's palm. "Was it awful? Was it dreadful? Was it... sexual?" Minerva's other hand reached down into her thigh gap. "Tell us everything; and don't stint on the details!"

Hermione looked around the room and, seeing she had a captive audience; she began.

"Well as you know I only care about what's fair for everyone." She began, as the gathered crowd gazed at her in sympathy and admiration. "And The Night King, well he approached me at a radical picnic in Beauxbatons and convinced me that he was an ally." She looked into the middle-distance and stifled a gasp. "He was just so convincing, so feminist, with his blue hair and seemingly fathomless inner-anger..."

Dany's eyes narrowed, she flashed a knowing look at Jacob, but the pair remained silent.

"We were planning to make the world a better place for women!" Hermione cried out suddenly.

This time Jacob couldn't hide a grunt of derision. The room hushed him angrily.

"A woman is speaking!" Cried Seamus furiously.

McGonagall stroked Hermione's hand like a favourite chihuahua. "Get to the good bits." She advised, wriggling her snakehips.

"I first realised something was wrong when he took me to dinner at a vegan restaurant-"

"What's wrong with that?" Asked Seamus, self-consciously.

"Oh, nothing in itself." Assured Hermione. "It was everything you could hope for. Dingy, outmoded, almost no flavour whatsoever... I was in heaven."

"So what went wrong dear?" McGonagall asked kindly, running a long, thin finger gently down Hermione's trembling spine; bringing forth an involuntary shudder.

"He offered to pay!" Hermione wailed.

The assembled crowd gasped.

"Chivalry!" Screamed Seamus. "Dat bastard!"

"I know, I know." Hermione worked the room. "But I was so in love- and I just happened to have left my galleons in my other jacket-"

"Perfectly understandable dear." McGonagall assured, licking Hermione's earlobe kindly.

"So I didn't read the warning signs." Hermione went on. "And, well- Later that evening, he took me to Madam Puddifoot's-"

At this The Hound snorted a laugh of derision.

McGonagall turned on him angrily. "Just because your idea of a hot date is getting smashed out of your skull and hiding in a twelve-year-old's bedroom, doesn't mean it's everyone's!" She said hotly.

Sandor shrugged his shoulders philosophically, acknowledging the fairness of the comment, and Hermione continued.

"The night was going so well, I was so in love. We-" She paused, and looked sheepish. "He took me to his Volkwagen Beetle and drove us to a secluded spot up in the hills."

McGonagall started dribbling down her chin, hand flicking furiously between her tight thighs. The finger-bone in her nose wobbled like an indecisive trifle. "And?" She moaned.

"He- he-" Hermione stammered. "He slipped up my sweater." She said at last. "And then he kind of just touched my brazier with one long fingernail and it froze off and fell to the floor."

McGonagall groaned and the eyeball she'd been sucking fell out of her watering mouth and plopped on the floor. Bem stared up at them all eyeballishly. Even Jacob was having a hard time keeping it down.

"And-" Hermione touched her chest again, in the same place as before. "He started nibbling gently on my nip-"

"Urgh!" McGonagall cried, falling from the arm of the chair. She shuddered on the floor for a few minutes, hips juddering, eyes narrowed in ecstasy.

"But it was so cold!" Hermione winced. "I asked him to stop and he got annoyed. He called me a filthy little Kingtease and it was just... like he was a different person. He drove us back to Hogsmeade in silence. I tried to engage him in conversation about manspreading, but he was sullen and unresponsive."

"But!" Cried Seamus. "A woman was talking!"

"And then it happened." Hermione sobbed as she relived the event. "As I was turning to leave, I thanked him for a lovely evening-" She broke off. "I was still so in love!" She explained, half-apologetically. "And he just looked at me and said-"

The room gasped.

"It was _my privilege_." Howled Hermione.

Harsh laughter sounded across the silent common room. "Stupid little twat!" Mocked The Hound. "I know The Night King, he only pretends to be a feminist to get laid. He taught Whedon everything he knows."

"I know that now!" Screamed Hermione, tearing at her frizzy hair.

"Isn't that true of every male 'ally'?" Asked McGonagall, composing herself after her little jaunt of rapture. "They've always struck me as being like those elephant seals who hide on the edge of the surf whilst the other males fight for dominance, then nip in and have their way with the females when no one is paying attention."

Seamus stared at his shoes and "arf-arfed" guiltily.

"But-" Gasped Hermione. "I thought you were one of the strongest female role models there was? How can you say such things about feminism?"

McGonagall chuckled. "It's precisely because I am a strong female that I don't need a movement in my life constantly preaching at me what a victim I am." She answered. "I'm a strong, independent woman in control of my own destiny; and I'm no one's victim!"

"Preach!" Dany jumped up and the women high-fived over Hermione's weeping, juddering form.

"I've been a fool!" Screeched Hermione. "And all I've got for my efforts is frostbitten nip-"

"A woman is talking!" Cried Seamus, looking up suddenly. Realising his mistake, he gave himself a chinese burn and winced apologetically.

"There's more," said Hermione breathlessly. "I discovered something about the Night King- something devastating!"

The room fell silent and everyone leaned in.

"It turns out he's been plotting with Nor-fol-"

Just then Colin walked in through the Gryffin-door, whistling merrily to himself.

"Hullo Colin!" Said Dean Thomas. "You're out late."

"I've been giving out blankets to the homeless at a pop-up soup kitchen in Diagon Alley." He said, a bit shame-facedly as if embarrassed by his own good deed.

"I don't know where you find the energy!" Exclaimed Ginny Weasley. "Always dashing about, helping others." She looked at Colin fondly, as a sister might look at a younger brother.

Jacob's eyes followed him across the room, narrowed in hatred and mistrust.

"Oh, it's really not all that." Said Colin, plonking himself down in a squishy armchair. "And bes- OUCH!" He jumped up, rubbing his side. "Something bit me!" Colin reached around in the chair and pulled out a used needle, holding it up. "Someone left this... in the chair." He sounded close to tears.

Jacob strode over and took a long, hard look. "Yep," he laughed. "It's one of Edith's."

Colin's face crumpled and large tears began welling in his devastated eyes. "But... Edith's g-got AIDS, hasn't she?" He asked with a trembling voice.

"Yep!" Winked Jacob breezily.

"I need to go for a test!" Colin made a dash for the door, but Jacob grabbed his arm.

"Don't be ridiculous!" He cried. "You don't need to go for a test."

"Then I'm OK?" Colin looked relieved.

"OK?" Jacob chuckled. "I doubt it. But you need to wait four weeks before the virus shows itself in your blood. Until then, it's pointless getting tested."

Colin began to wail. "I d-don't w-w-want AIDS!" He cried.

Jacob slapped him with all his might. "Listen you little Nor-folkian bastard," he said with all the kindness he could muster. "If it were up to me, you'd be dead already like all your filthy kind. AIDS isn't the death sentence it once was, and you're far more likely to die from me murdering you than that. I've been plotting how to make it look like an accident since I first found out who you were. So try not to worry too much about the long-term, because it's very unikely that you have one."

Colin looked up hopefully. "You really mean it?" He asked, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Ask Flitwick." Jacob said honestly. "He's in on it. We were going to jump you after Astronomy next week, but with all this Voldemort stuff going on we might have to put things back a little."

Colin hugged Jacob tightly. "Thanks so much," he grinned.

Jacob forced down the vomit that rose in his gorge. "Don't. Ever. Touch. Me. Again." He hissed through clenched teeth.

"You were saying something about the Night King?" Dany reminded Hermione after a brief lull.

Hermione glanced fearfully towards Jacob and Colin. "Oh, er- it can wait." She said evasively, still shaking with emotion. "I just feel so- _used_." Her eyes took on a mad gleam. "I'm going to call him!" She cried out, producing her magically-jailbroken cellphone and tapping at the touchscreen.

"Call who?" Asked Seamus, looking devastated. "Not the Night King?"

"No of course not!" Laughed Hermione madly. "I mean Voldemort, of course! Maybe I can still get that crab dinner-" She pulled up his contact details and hovered her thumb over the dial button.

"Noooo!" Everyone screamed at once.

Hermione looked around, hesitantly. "But he really knows how to treat a woman." She said weakly. "He said he'd wine me and dine me; he'd treat me like a princess!"

Both Dany and McGonagall were a little bit sick in their mouths at that.

"Come doll, merry doll, ring-ding-a-dillo!" Cried Tom Bombadil, wagging a reproachful finger. "You're going from one extreme to the other, my little one. It won't end well, so says old Tom!"

"So says us all!" Cried the room.

"Oh, I wish Sebastian were here!" Hermione cried out in distress.

"Who's Sebastian?" Asked Seamus, looking devastated.

"He's my best friend, I met him on a snorkelling holiday in the Caribbean. He'd know what to do, he always gives the most excellent advice."

Tom stroked his beard and gave a little wink. "But Sebastian's not here, fa-la-la er... lillo! Listen to old Tom, he's been around a bit and he knows what's what."

Hermione gazed from her phone, then back to Tom. "What advice do you have for me then?"

Tom did a little dance then began. "Find yourself a middle way between all this madness." He advised. "It's not good to try and force ideas on other folk and dictate how they should live their lives, that only leads to bitterness and unhappiness."

"Mainsplainer!" Seamus screamed, pointing an accusatory finger at Tom and looking furious.

"Shut the fuck up!" The room cried, and Seamus sat down again, red-faced.

Tom went on. "But if you think Voldemort's Twelfth-Century ideals will make you happy, just because you had a bad experience with a feminist ally, you're sadly mistaken my derry-doll."

"What's wrong with Twlefth-Century relationship ideals?" Asked Beric, looking hurt and bewildered.

"Tom says let people be themselves and everything will work out for the best." The little man intoned. "Why look at old Tom here-" He spread his arms wide. "Bright blue his jacket is, bushy is his manly beard, he's the MMA champion of all the Old Forest; why once he put a hedgehog in a choke-hold so fierce that its eyes popped out of its skull and embedded themselves in a passing squirrel, ring-ding-a-dillo! But does he feel constrained to act a certain way? No my hearty, he does not!" He slammed a balled fist into his open palm to hammer home the point. "Old Tom goes a'flower collecting, he sings, he cooks, he capers; and does he like a finger up the bum at bedtime? Old Tom's not telling, my hearty-" he winked coyly at the watching Gryffindors. "But there's a reason Goldberry's known as stinkfinger for a seventy-mile radius around the Withywindle! Oh-ho-ho!" He chuckled.

Hermione was looking at the old man with wonder. "I have no idea what you're talking about." She shook her head - bemused - before hitting dial.

Seamus - looking devastated - dove across the room and tried to beat the phone out of Hermione's hands. At the last moment, Jacob snatched him out of the air like a gold token in the crystal dome; swinging him around his head and sending him flying through the open window, screaming.

More people moved to snatch the phone from Hermione, but Jacob stilled them with a fierce glare.

"Let her," he said. "Let her call." He looked around the room. "I think I've just figured out how we can use this to our advantage."

Everyone gazed at Jacob expectantly, as the phone rang.

* * *

Authors note: What will happen between Hermione and Voldemort? Just what is Jacob's plan? Is there more to Colin than meets the eye? And why is Snape creeping around the cemetery at night?

All these questions and more will be answered in the coming instalments! We also get to witness a happy reunion between Gandalf and Dumbledore, and Hogwarts hosts a major celebration; It will go down in history as... _The Brown Wedding_!


	7. Chapter 7

**D** rogon swooped down out of the night sky like a terror of the ancient world and alighted next to Fat Sam's Crab Shack. The wet streets glistened in the newly-fallen rain, as neon city lights glimmered in the myriad puddles and potholes that pocked the seedy landscape. A faint damp mist clung in the air, as somewhere far off a police siren wailed.

"Are you sure about this?" Asked Dany, as Drogon lowered a shoulder to let Hermione disembark.

"Oh quite!" The girl answered with forced cheeriness, taking in the vista nervously. "That chapstick you gave me worked wonders, by the way; they're feeling much better." She touched her chest delicately.

Dany smiled. "Dario used to have this trick with ice cubes, salt and a baby goat filled with live eels. God how it used to bring me to ecstasy-" She sighed fondly. "But it was murder on the areolae. I learned the chapstick trick from a red priestess in Yunkai; we used to take turns rubbing it on each other's sensitive parts and..." Dany caught herself and blushed.

Hermione - too nervous to notice anything amiss - stepped onto the curb and took a deep breath. "Wish me luck!" She said, adjusting her hair.

An unfortunate combination of the damp night air and the flight on a dragon's back had turned it almost into an afro; Hermione gazed into the dingy establishment nervously. She could just make out Voldemort sitting at a table in the corner, wearing a 'Tiny-T' crew-neck. It had a picture of Tyrion's face on the front and bore the words 'licking de bacon' along the bottom. He gave off a nervous, excitable air as he reached up and tied an oversize novelty bib around his neck.

A sign on the front of the restaurant read:

 _Anybody who is anybody will soon walk through that door!_

Dany opened her mouth to call the girl back, but Jacob's last words made her bite her tongue. Hermione gave a goofy two-thumbs up signal, and stepped into the candle-lit crustacean station.

Voldemort had called off the attack almost as soon as Hermione agreed to go out with him. That was part of Jacob's plan no doubt - but not all - Dany suspected. She shuddered at the thought of using poor Hermione as a chess piece, to be moved and used according to someone else's great plan. That had been her fate once. The whole situation made her feel dirty. But having Voldemort distracted was a huge weight off everyone's mind, even if the Night King did still lurk in Hogsmeade, plotting.

"Mummy needs cheering up." Queen Daenerys of the house Targeryen patted the great beast she straddled, feeling it's mighty sinews rippling between her legs.

"Take me somewhere far, far away from here; my love." She said sadly.

 **T** he Airbus A380-800 juddered as it hit turbulance for the umpteenth time that night, causing the pilot to chuckle nervously to himself.

"It doesn't matter how many hours I log in one of these babies, these damn air pockets still make me nervous like I was straight of out flight school."

His co-pilot laughed. "I know what you mean." He said, sipping his codeine linctus with a trembling hand. "It's quiet out there... almost too quiet."

Back in economy class, a handsome older gentleman compulsively played with a rosary, twisting and rubbing it between his shaking fingers.

"First time flying?" A kindly voice asked to his left.

The older man turned to see who was speaking. It was a gentleman of about forty years, with an open, friendly face bearing a look of benevolent concern.

"What- no." He answered, frowning. "I fly every night; I'm trying to get back to the Island."

The younger man smiled again and held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you sir, my name is Sam; Dr Sam Beckett."

"Jorah." The older man took his hand. "Ser Jorah Mormont." They shook.

"What do you do for a living, Jorah?" Dr Beckett asked, not noticing the look of distraction on his new friend's face.

"Mostly I try to forget." Mormont said sadly, and gazed out of the window hopefully as another bout of turbulence hit. There was a pause, long enough to be uncomfortable. "And you?"

Sam smiled. "I work in animal testing- don't shoot me!" He laughed. "I inject monkeys with cosmetics, that sort of thing. There was a time I used to work in theoretical physics, but the money in the private sector was just too alluring." He sighed wistfully. "I still harbour dreams of developing a clean and limitless free energy source for mankind one day, however."

Jorah frowned. "How are you going to do that slavering lipstick on small animals?" He asked.

"Like I said, it's just a dream." Said Sam, looking sad.

Just then a waif of a girl in a tiny silver mini-dress shuffled between the seats and alighted herself next to Ser Jorah.

"Is this your daughter?" Asked Sam, smiling kindly at the girl.

Jorah looked up, startled. "Yes- er, daughter." He flashed a warning look at the waif, who pursed her lips and stared straight forward, wide-eyed.

"My what beautiful violet irises you have," Sam commented. "And that silver hair, just stunning."

The truth was that Dr Beckett was being kind with these compliments. The 'silver' hair was lank and damaged, and an inch of dirty-blonde roots were visible at the dandruff-flecked hairline; and as for the 'violet irises', they were offset with red-rimmed eyes, a consequence of a bad reaction to the coloured contact lenses Mormont made her wear at all times. There was also an odd, sour, fishy smell about her; it was nasty, like rotting flesh.

"How old are you honey?" Beckett asked.

"Eighteen." She answered, looking at Mormont in obvious fright. He nodded approval, with just the hint of a warning not to say any more.

"My!" Cried Sam. "I didn't put you down as a day over twelve years old."

Jorah laughed nervously. "Olechka's blessed with her mother's good genes." He flashed another warning look at the girl.

"She was hit by a car..." 'Lecha explained sullenly.

Just then everyone gasped as the plane dropped suddenly, their stomachs lifted into their mouths as they left their heads somewhere in the clouds.

"Something's wrong." Said Jorah, pensively. He looked out of the small, square window of double-layered acrylic and saw one engine smoking. "We're falling." He added, almost interestedly.

 **D** any leapt down from Drogon onto the dark, barren hillside, shivering in the chill of the highland air. "Mummy needs warming up," she stroked the beast fondly. Gazing around to make sure they were alone, she lay down on the short, springy grass and hitched up her skirts to reveal pale, almost translucent thighs that shone in the moonlight. Dany lay back and slipped down her underwear, kicking it into the darkness with one booted foot.

Drogon sniffed the air and edged forward carefully on two wings, enveloping Daenerys with his enormous, black frame. She felt him rising at the touch of her and felt herself responding. Reaching down between her legs, she guided him in and gasped; it felt like fire.

Some time later - Dany did not know how long - a moan and an odd splashing sound from further up the hillside caught her attention. Drogon growled and peered into the murk.

"Who's there?" Called Dany, trying to sound calm and commanding; like the Mother of Dragons.

She was met by only silence.

"Drogon my love," she stroked the beast. "If whoever is out there doesn't show themselves in the next ten seconds, you have my permission to roast them and eat them..." She let the rest hang.

"Wait- wait!" A rough, thickly-accented voice cried out into the night. "I'm- I'm comin' out. Don't shoot!"

A man emerged from a half-hidden cave; holding two trembling hands up in supplication. He was enormous, sporting rainbow-coloured hair and a lime green tutu.

"Explain yourself." Demanded Dany angrily, betraying just the slightest hint of a guilty conscience.

"I'm sorry!" The giant man cried. "We were just mindin' our own business, Grawpy and me, and we heard some odd groaning and panting outside the cave-"

Dany flushed red at this description of events.

"And... well-" The man continued. "I came out to see what's what, and there you were." He looked at the ground in shame. "You were the sexiest thing I ever saw; I- I just couldn't help myself." He buttoned up his trousers, being careful not to step in the massive pile of jizz at his feet. Sperms the size of earthworms writhed on steaming grass, making a wet slopping sound as they thrashed madly in a pearly-coloured liquid that looked about the consistency of thick yoghurt; they hissed at Dany, showing her rows upon rows of silver-coloured fangs, like the mouth of some mechanical lamprey.

Dany frowned. "Well, I suppose I should take that as a compliment."

The large man seemed confused. "I were talking about the dragon." He said at last. "Marvellous creatures; this one reminds me of me old Norberta." He wiped away a tear then rubbed two sticky palms on his stained trousers and offered one out. "Rubeus is the name; Rubeus Hagrid."

Dany was saved from having to touch the filthy creature by the sudden emergence of another, even bigger figure from the cave. He was sixteen feet if he was an inch, with a small head like a boulder that sat on top of massive, powerful shoulders.

"Hagger?" The big creature looked from Dany to Hagrid in confusion.

"My brother Grawpy, bless 'im." Hargrid said fondly.

"Hello." Dany spoke as slowly and clearly as she could to make sure of being understood. "My... name... is... Daenerys... what's... your... name?"

The giant stuck out a hand the size of shovel and opened his large mouth to speak. "My name is Grawp." He said in a clipped tenor. "I'm ever so pleased to meet you Daenerys, how do you do?"

"Oh I'm very sorry." Dany exclaimed, taking the proffered hand. "I thought you were a full-retard."

"The feeling was mutual." Beamed Grawp.

"Grawpy's a computer hacker." Said Hagrid proudly. "He were just helping me set up a custom Kodi build on me Galaxy S6 so I can watch the My Little Pony channel for free."

Grawp looked at Dany almost apologetically. "Normally it would be a simple procedure, but the magics around Hogwarts extend even as far as these hills. I'm having a devil of a time getting the installer to run." He tugged on his black hoodie ruefully.

Hagrid did a clumsy pirouette and showed Dany his pink tail. "I'm a Brony." He told her proudly.

Just then, Dany's ringtone pierced the night. She fished her iphone out of her bodice and was about to answer when Grawp looked at her in amazement.

"How on earth did you get that to work around here?" He asked in astonishment.

Dany shrugged. "A girl called Hermione Granger cast some sort of custom-built magical crack to jailbreak it." She said, not really understanding the words.

Grawp looked at her dumbfounded. "That's the most sensational piece of hacking I've ever seen!" He cried, looking half-mad in his excitement. "I must meet this master and beg them to teach me their ways!"

Daenerys shrugged. "Well she's having a crab buffet with the Dark Lord at the moment so it will have to wait." She swiped the lockscreen and groaned when she saw who was calling. Hesitating slightly, she made herself hit 'accept', then held the device to her ear.

"Khaleesi..." A voice on the other end breathed.

"Look Mormont-" Dany began hotly. "If you're drunk on Arbor gold and thinking of singing the Jonas Brothers down the phone to me again-"

"It's not that-" Mormont cut in. "Not this time Khaleesi- Besides, I'm over you anyway; got myself a new gir- er, woman." He let out an unconvincing laugh. "But we're in trouble - big trouble - and only you can save us, Daenerys."

Dany listened, frowning at times, exclaiming at others. "Make up on animals!" She cried at one point, horrified. Then she gasped, tears in her eyes. "But Ser Jorah!" She exclaimed. "How can I possibly find you in time, you could be anywhere!"

Just then Grawp - who had been listening in - asked Dany if he could borrow her phone. He introduced himself to Jorah and explained how to use the phone's GPS function to get a 10 digit co-ordinate which could be used to pinpoint the aeroplane's exact position. He quickly inputted the details into Dany's iphone, cursing at the dearth of back-end functionality despite the undeniably slick interface.

When all was ready, he handed the phone back to Dany and told her to follow the golden arrow on the screen and it would take her to Jorah. If he had calculated the rate they were falling correctly, following the arrow should lead to a direct intercept about 500 metres above the ground. One thing was certain; it was going to be close.

Dany leapt onto Drogon's back, and they swept into the night.


	8. Chapter 8: Interlude

Interlude

McGonagall and Tyrion crept into the silent graveyard, darting furtive looks in all directions. The night was clear, the air heavy with moisture which clung to the grass growing wild and unkempt among the fading grey stones that surrounded them on all sides. They both jumped nearly out of their skin as an owl hooted in the rotten hollow of an ancient oak, looming in a forgotten corner and stretching out its gnarled arms over a ten foot high brick wall, topped with brutal-looking rusted spikes.

"Did you bring the gear?" McGonagall hissed through her newly-sharpened teeth, finger bone wobbling in her pointed nose.

Tyrion motioned to the sack on his shoulder, which clunked faintly with the sound of muffled metal. They crept on silently through the eerie domain of eternal repose, before the diminutive Lannister stopped at a random grave, the headstone less faded than the rest.

"Here, do you think?" He asked McGonagall doubtfully.

The head of Gryffindor rubbed her toned stomach anxiously, seeming unconvinced. "Go on then, let's just get it over with."

Tyrion tipped the contents of his sack onto the chilly turf, which shone faintly in the light of a waxing gibbous moon. He took up a pick-axe and threw a shovel to his nervous companion. Finding his mark above the grave, he lifted the pick behind his head and was just about to strike when a distinctly familiar moan caused them both to swing around in surprise. Someone else was in the graveyard!

After a few breathless moments which felt like a lifetime - in which the pair of would-be grave robbers stood indecisively rooted to the spot - a black figure emerged before them, seemingly from nowhere.

"Severus!" Cried McGonagall, half relieved and half annoyed. "You too?"

Snape looked like he'd seen a ghost. "Minerva?" He said, voice trembling. "Tiny-T? Whatever are you two doing here in the middle of the night?"

"It's ok Severus." Tyrion began, with a sad, serious air. "You don't need to hide it from us, we're victims of the same terrible desire."

Snape looked like he couldn't believe his ears. "I thought I was alone!" He began to blubber, tears forming in his greasy eye sockets. "Sweet heaven above have mercy, this is the happiest day of my life! Finally, someone to share my terrible burden!"

"Yes Severus," said McGonagall seriously. "Both Tyrion and I have fallen for the forbidden pleasures of the flesh." She licked her sharpened teeth. "It's a distraction, a dysfunction... an obsession!"

"Yes!" Wailed Snape. "All this time, I thought I was the only one!"

"How did it start for you?" Asked Tyrion, piqued by fellowship and curiosity.

Snape frowned and looked like he wanted to clam up. Eventually he opened his mouth and began to talk hesitantly. "It... was my... mother." He said haltingly.

Both Tyrion and McGonagall gasped.

Snape shuffled his feet self-consciously. "I beg of you, don't judge me; not you, not now." He pleaded in a weak, pathetic voice. "I never had enough affection as a child, I just wanted to feel... close to her, one last time."

"That's an... _odd_ way to feel close to your own mother." Tyrion mused, doubtfully. "But then again, what would I know? I killed my mother, shot my father with a crossbow and I used to smear the jelly from a pork pie all over my scrotum and get the dog to lick it off, all whilst spying on my brother and sister taking turns to shove lighted church candles up each other."

McGonagall turned to him sharply. "Sandor did that?" She asked in wonder.

Tyrion nodded. "He's more deviant than he lets on; only dog I ever knew to cough up furballs, if you know what I mean?" He winked and grabbed his midget bulge, jostling his twiddly bits with a salacious leer.

"And what about you two?" Snape asked excitedly. His face shone with happiness and relief.

"It was Bem." Said McGonagall simply. "It was Bem who gave us a taste for it."

Snape gasped in admiration and wonder. "You kinky bastards!" He cried, chuckling from surprise. "There was barely anything of him left!"

"Well yes." Explained Tyrion, frowning. "We ate most of him."

Snape let out a sound like an airhorn. "You _eat_ them too?" Tears ran down his wan, oleaginous cheeks and began dripping onto his filthy dungarees. "It- it never even occurred- Not even to me! Oh happy day; to have met two such kindred spirits!"

McGonagall and Tyrion narrowed their eyes in unison. "What do you mean eat them _too_?" Asked Tyrion, looking Snape in the eye. "What else do you do? Just why are you here, exactly?"

Snape froze. "Um- well-" He stammered. "That is to say-" He looked around frantically. "I just meant-"

"Are those maggots on your crotch?" McGonagall asked suspiciously.

Snape's eyes shot down and he started brushing at his tackle furiously. "No!" He cried, even though it was clear that they were.

"You've, er- got some around your mouth too." Tyrion advised, looking faintly disgusted.

"I, er- have to be going." Snape began to edge away, looking terrified. "Just to be absolutely clear, we're all... cannibals? Correct?"

McGonagall licked her pointed pearlies and let out a mirthless bark of laughter. "Your own dead mother, eh Severus?"

Snape looked around desperately, but there was no rescue in sight. "Well- I mean-" He sweated. "Technically she was alive when it began. The vegetative state lasted quite a few years, in fact-" He tugged at his collar nervously. "That makes it better, right?"

McGonagall looked at him shrewdly. "And how did she get into a vegetative state in the first place?"

Snape looked like he wanted to die... moreso even than usual. "I- That is to say-" He coughed into a shaking fist. "Someone- some rotten motherfu- Nothing was ever proven by the way!" He interrupted himself, almost madly. "Someone gave her an accidental overdose of rohypnol with her morning gin and Cornflakes."

"Some rotten mother-bleeper." McGonagall's echoed - her eyes piercing Snape - who seemed to melt into the ground even as he stood before them.

"Bitterly ironic, really." Tyrion said, shaking his head in revulsion.

This drew questioning stares from his nighttime companions.

"It's just that John Harvey Kellogg invented Cornflakes back in 1894 to help stop masturbation and sexual desire." Tyrion explained. "He thought it was unhealthy for the body and mind and-" He looked Snape up and down and fought the urge to vomit. "Well let's just say he might have had a point."

"Didn't he also used to give himself yoghurt enemas and recommend threading a silver wire through the foreskin to prevent erectios?" Asked McGonagall.

Tyrion nodded. "He did indeed and, perhaps even worse, Kellog was an advocate of female genital mutilation. He recommended using carbolic acid to burn off the clitoris in order that the-."

Snape gasped noisily and juddered where he stood. All this talk of torture and degradation had been to much for him to bear and he'd made a little accident in his pants. A fresh, sticky wet stain began spreading out around his maggot-infested crotch.

"Mummy!" He wailed and ran off into the distance, reeking of corruption and unspeakable desires.

"You know what?" Said McGonagall, turning to Tyrion. "I think I'm quite over my obsession with the oh-so-sweet, forbidden taste of human flesh."

Tyrion nodded a vigorous assent. "Besides-" He added gazing around the graveyard suspiciously. "We don't want to be chowing down on Snape's sloppy seconds." He shuddered involuntarily.

McGonagall licked her sharpened teeth, shivering slightly. "We're not hooked." She said unconvincingly. "We can stop anytime we like."

"Oh quite." Tyrion tried to sound more confident than he felt.

Just then a fireball streaked by overhead, lighting their upturned faces with an artificial orange glow. The noise came a few seconds later, travelling at a constant three-hundred-and-thirty-seven metres per second; it was a screeching, keening sound, like the air itself was being rent asunder.

"Seven save us!" Cried Tyrion, falling to his knees. "A demon! The Night King has come at last!"

"No, not the Night King." McGonagall countered, tracking the object through the night sky with fear and wonder. "It's an Airbus A380-800; and- my God!" She exclaimed. "It seems to be heading straight for Gryffindor tower!"

There was a sudden rush of wind and a new shape - black against the stars - swept by, blotting out the very moon.

"It's the Mother of Dragons!" Tyrion wept with relief and joy. "But wait- she's... she's not going to get there in time!"

The orange fireball hurtled towards Gryffindor tower, as McGonagall and Tyrion closed their eyes and began to pray.


	9. Chapter 9

**D** any leaned low over Drogon's long neck, feeling the wind whip her face as they raced in the direction of the golden arrow. A faint light could just be seen ahead, which Dany assumed to be the crashing Airbus. It was hurtling towards the ground at an almost impossible speed, the Dragon Queen felt her heart racing as she silently prayed they would make it in time.

Despite the urgency of the situation, a part of Dany's mind still found time to go over all the many, complex feelings she held towards her sad old knight. No one else could fill her with such confidence, such surety - she trusted Ser Jorah's advice above almost all other people - but at the same time, no one was so frustrating, so infuriating, so... _Jorah_!

"I'll rescue him." She told Drogon. "Then I'll kill him myself."

It had been over two years since Daenerys had banished Jorah from her sight upon pain of death after he had installed that hidden camera in her personal privy. He'd claimed that it was a security measure to protect against ingress by the faceless men, but a quick search of his laptop had revealed lurid mkv video files with such titles as '154: D takes a dump' and '748: Piss and a fart'.

Being somewhat of a deviant herself, Dany could have perhaps forgiven Ser Jorah for this, but when his website was uncovered by Greyworm and the whole truth came out, Dany had had to act swiftly. It turned out that Ser Jorah had been running hundreds of voyeur cams, which he'd hidden all over the great pyramid of Meereen; he had specialist sites for people with every kind of fetish imaginable, from eunuch porn, to disabled scat fetishes and everything in between. Greyworm had been incensed at the treachery and had gone looking for Mormont with the intention of running him through with a spear, but once he found out how many fans he had all over the world, he'd been absolutely delighted and agreed to let Jorah cut him in as a partner.

That was another reason Dany was upset with him; she'd lost her best, most capable warrior because of Ser Jorah's dishonesty. Greyworm was now a Youtube star; he made millions streaming himself playing MMOs and he had sponsorship deals from everyone from the Wise Masters of Yunkai, to Red Bull (which he had become addicted to, even though it gave him arrhythmias.)

Another reason Dany had to suspect Mormont of foul play was the platinum white wig she had found hidden under Missandei's mattress. It was tattered and unkempt, and bore a style that Daenerys herself had worn some months back. At first Dany had been flattered by the imitation, but when she questioned Missandei about the wig she had clammed up tight and refused to speak. The poor girl had looked terrified; all Daenerys could get out of her was that 'it was a game' and 'she wasn't supposed to tell, or the people she cared about would get hurt'.

Dany had sent Missandei to the maester for a full examination, and sure enough, she was brutally ruptured inside, and bore the telltale scars of repeated, forced entry. She had succumbed soon-after to a sudden infection which, coincidentally, had begun the day after Mormont had taken her out for a 'birthday treat' to McDonalds. Dany suspected that all was not quite as it seemed with the devastating virus; indeed she could not prove anything, but poison had been foremost on her mind. Missandei of Naath had died after a brief, agonising illness which lasted for three tortuous days and nights, in which her muscles spasmed so violently she broke her back and bit out her own tongue. They buried her in a quiet, secluded garden surrounded by flowers and delicate fruit trees. She was only ten years old.

The orange glow grew larger in the middle-distance.

"Onwards Drogon my love, with all speed!" She said, as much to herself as to the racing dragon.

Just then, the golden arrow disappeared and the name 'Hermione' flashed up on the screen of her iphone. Dany agonised for a couple of seconds, then answered the call.

"Hermione?"

"Daenerys-" The girl began breathlessly.

"Is everything OK?" Dany asked worriedly.

"OK?" Hermione laughed, a mad, shrill sound. "Better than OK, I should think. I'm having the time of my life!"

Daenerys frowned. "You sound... different, somehow. Do you feel OK? You're not lightheaded, confused at all-"

Hermione let out a childish snort of mild exasperation. "I'm _fine_ " she stressed. "It's just- well look don't judge me-" She added quickly. "We've been drinking champagne and I feel a little giddy. But oh! Daenerys, he's _such_ a gentleman! He's so noble... so brave! Have you ever noticed how his shiny pate just seems to gleam, like a-"

"Are you sure you know what you're getting yourself into?" Dany asked, narrowing her eyes.

"I'm not a little girl!" Hermione shot back, a little crossly.

Dany rolled her eyes.

"I heard that!" Hermione said accusingly.

"Hermione-" Daenerys began. "It's just that, he's the Dark Lord and you're a brilliant young feminist with-"

"Oh, I'm done with all that!" Hermione interjected, laughing scornfully. "McGonagall was right, it's a cult, a cult of victimisation. I'm a strong, independent woman-"

"Which is why you're allowing yourself to be treated like some sort of prize, rather than a rational, intelligent individual." Dany cut across, feeling the heat of her Targaryen anger rising to the surface.

"I thought you agreed with McGonagall?" Hermione sounded exasperated and perplexed.

Dany sighed, it was easy to forget how young the girl still was. "I do agree with her," she explained as patiently as she could. "But I don't think she'd advise throwing away your agency to someone who puts you on a pedestal - which is never healthy - and simultaneously treats you like an inferior when it comes to things like your own independence-"

"Everyone is inferior to the Dark Lord." Hermione's voice was high, and cold. "You think I don't know what I'm doing; you think I'm just a silly little girl. Well I know more than you, I know more than McGonagall, Bombadil, or any of the rest of them!" She was almost shouting now, close to tears. "I know he's not perfect, _but I can change him_! I've seen the good in him, _I've touched his soul_!"

Dany couldn't quite mask her snort of contempt. There was a click, then the line went dead. Dany was too worked-up to feel particularly guilty, although she knew it would come given time to calm down. She had a strong suspicion that Hermione would not feel the same; the girl was too far gone and it would end in tears - _if_ she was lucky.

Suddenly she felt savage heat on her face and heard a agonised screeching sound. She looked up; the aeroplane was nearly upon them!

 **D** rogon drew level with the plummeting Airbus as Dany scanned the windows frantically for any sign of Jorah. Suddenly she spotted a face smushed up against the window, so flattened by the plexiglass it was nearly unrecognisable - nearly but not quite - it was her bear. She gave him a quick thumbs up as her mind worked frantically on how to solve the problem of the crashing jet. She could maybe use Drogon's head to ram the window? But no, that was too risky, for Mormont and for Drogon. There was no way of towing the plane, it was just too big; and besides she'd lent her towing cables to Xaro Xhoan Daxos, who had never returned them.

A terrifying sight loomed up in front of them, it was a tower of some sort and they were heading right for it. She looked once more at Jorah and saw a single tear roll down his cheek. He gave her a little nod, which Dany took to signfy that he was ready to die, that he understood she had tried her best. Just then, another face came into view; it was a young girl, around twelve years old with red-rimmed eyes and bleached, platinum-blonde hair. Jorah looked at Dany, then to the girl; he extended one hairy arm and forced the girl out of sight.

Daenerys wheeled Drogon around in a tight circle so that they kept pace with the Airbus, but were now slightly behind it. The tower - Gryffindor tower she could see now - grew ever larger in their direct line of travel.

'Jacob is in there!' She thought desperately.

Not knowing what else to do, Dany got Drogon to dip slightly and cried with all her might; "DRACARYS!"

A fierce jet of scorching dragon-fire lit up the underside of the plane, warping the metal before her very eyes, despite not making direct contact. The shrieking metal protested, hurting Dany's ears but she screamed again; "DRACARYS! DRACARYS! DRACARYS!"

The plane began to stabilise, and then... yes it was beginning to lift! The superheated air had become buoyant, beyond all of Dany's wildest hopes and expectations. The Airbus swept over the pointed turret, screaming in protest where the pointed apex dug into the laser-welded aluminium alloys of the lower-fuselage. Dany breathed a huge sigh of relief, she saw Jorah through the small square window, seemingly struggling with something below and to his left. He gave her a thumbs-up signal with his right hand and Dany felt all the residual anger melting away; seeing him felt wonderful.

She spent the next few minutes controlling the plane's descent with decreasing bursts of searing dragon-fire until it bumped to the ground, almost gently. A raucous clapping went up inside the fuselage, where relieved passengers who a moment before had been preparing to meet their makers, basked in the cloying sense of an impossible reprieve. The door flew open and an escape chute noisily inflated beneath.

Jorah was carried out on the passengers' shoulders. He was clapping his hands above his head and crying: "Yes it was me, I did it! It was all me! Thank you- thank you all!" He was stuffing flyers for his fetish sites in their pockets as they hoisted him.

Dany frowned, but let it pass.

When all the passengers were safe on the ground, she approached Jorah apprehensively.

"Khaleesi..." He said in his inimitable way, as he saw her threading a path through his admirers. He was handing out autographs and accepting small monetary donations of thanks from the grateful passengers. He bullied the people who didn't have cash into scanning a QR code on his Galaxy S6 and paying him electronically.

"Ser Jorah." Daenerys' face was stern.

"I wasn't sure you'd come..." Jorah said, sadly. "I thought..." He let it hang.

"No one gets to kill you but me." Dany told him, tight lipped. She stared at him a moment, the broke into a grin. "I've missed you Mormont."

"I've missed you too; Khaleesi." Jorah replied.

Just then, Olechka wove her way through the throng and came to stand besides the reuniting pair. Sometime between the conversation with Dr Beckett and the rescue, she had gotten herself a black eye, about the size of a man's fist. Dany recognised her as being the face at the window next to Mormont, whom he had quickly tried to hide from view. She took in the girl's violet eyes, her silver hair - badly dyed - the way she was looking up at Ser Jorah expectantly. Queen Daenerys frowned her displeasure.

"And who is this?"

Jorah looked at the girl casually, then back to Dany. "Never seen her before in my life." He shrugged. "Some waif, or other." He flashed Lecha a warning look and balled a fist. She looked at him with terrified eyes and said nothing.

"Do you know this man?" Dany asked the girl, with as much gentleness and kindness as she could muster.

The girl shook her head fiercely, refusing to even look at Mormont.

"Go on then, run along." Ser Jorah told the child, who finally looked at him, with hurt and bewlidered eyes. She was shivering badly in the cold mountain air, wearing nothing but a slip of thin fabric, very like to one of Dany's dresses in Meereen. "What's the matter, are you deaf?" Mormont barked suddenly; and the girl ran off into the night, looking back over her shoulder just once, with wild, questioning eyes.

 **D** any and Jorah spent the next ten minutes catching up on each other's news. Jorah was disappointed, but not surprised to learn that Daenerys was still locked in a loveless marriage with Jacob; likewise the Dragon Queen was fondly exasperated to hear Mormont's explanation as to why he'd been flying around the country in the first place.

"So you want to get back to Bear Island?" She asked him, with narrowed eyes and a slightly jutting bottom lip. "Why not just-"

"There's no airport on Bear Island and I'm banned from the hovercraft." Jorah interjected, cutting off the half-formed question.

Dany chuckled. "Should I even ask?"

"It was a total misunderstanding, my Queen-" Jorah protested, reddening slightly. "That girl- she fell out of her wheelchair! I was- I was helping her back in!"

Dany frowned.

Jorah tugged at his collar and began to sweat. "Can I help it if somehow my trousers ended up around my ankles? She was thrashing like a wild thing! You wouldn't believe a six-year-old could possess such great strength- And those lungs on her! I only settled out of court to spare any embarrassment to the family name, I swear Khaleesi!"

Something in the back of Dany's mind told her that Jorah wasn't telling the whole truth, but she subconsciously chose to ignore it. She was too happy to have her old advisor back to risk ruining things with awkward questions.

"But how did you think flying around-"

"I got the idea from Lost." Jorah cut in once more. "I thought; if it's good enough for John Locke-"

Dany laughed properly this time, right from the belly. "You and John Locke!" She chuckled, tears of fondness welling in her eyes. "You know, it was Jack who gathered everyone onto the plane to get back to the Island-"

"Don't talk to me about Jack!" Mormont shouted fiercely, a mad gleam in his eyes. "He never understood the Island- he never believed in it, not like Locke! Gods, even Ben had a better grip on the Island than 'Dr Shephard'-" He made inverted commas as he said the surgeon's name. "He was never worthy of being leader, it should have been John!"

"No need to shout at me." Dany raised her hands in a mock defensive posture. "You know I'm team Hurley all the way."

Jorah snorted disgustedly. "Well you got your wish, didn't you?" He spat on the ground. "And what did Locke get? Murdered then possessed and reanimated by the Man in Black! There's no justice in this world Khaleesi." He ranted on, bitterly.

Daenerys smiled to herself. Jorah was such an old fusspot, he had never properly understood the separation between fictional television drama and reality. Indeed when Dany had sat him down one day as he wept and struck himself inconsolably over the death of John Locke and tried to explain the nuance, his take-away had been that Locke was some sort of reality tv star, which only served to heighten his distress. He stubbornly refused however, to believe that the Kardashians could be real. Dany envied him that.

"Let's go to Hogwarts, put on our pyjamas and watch the Golden Child!" Dany said, excitedly. "It'll be just like old times, back in the tent on the Dothraki Sea, remember?"

Jorah's eyes welled with tears. "Khaleesi," he said. "It would be my honour."

Just as they were turning to leave, Dr Beckett hurried up to them, shaking with barely contained excitement. "Excuse me, miss?" He hovered around Dany, trying to hold her attention.

"My name is Queen Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains and Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea." She told the man. "But you may call me 'Your Highness', or 'Your Grace' if you wish."

Dr Beckett took Dany in with a wry smile, noting her violet eyes and platinum-blonde hair and smiling at Mormont, knowingly.

"Er, Khaleesi!" Mormont interceded, a little too hurriedly. "Allow me to introduce Dr Samuel Beckett- a good man Khaleesi, very good man."

Dr Beckett held out his hand. "It's an honour to meet you, Your Grace. And almost as great an honour to be in the presence of a magnificent creature such as this."

Jorah swelled up with pride for a moment, before realising that Becket's last comment was directed towards Drogon, who was eyeing the milling survivors hungrily.

"Pray, Ser Beckett, speak swiftly." Dany told the man. "We have a pressing engagement, and the night is dark and full of... kerosene?" She ended, sniffing the air.

"Then I'll make this quick." Sam assured her. "It's just, I've always- since I was a little boy I mean, back on the dairy farm in Elk Ridge, Indiana-"

Dany huffed and made a winding motion with her forefinger to indicate that he should skip to the point.

"Well I want to create a device that will provide cheap, almost unlimited, clean energy to mankind." He went on. "I even have the blueprints for just such a machine stored on my laptop, but modern technology just isn't advanced enough and all my attempts have ended in failure."

"And what does this have to do with me?" Dany asked, feeling more annoyed by the second.

"Everything!" Beckett cried. "Oh my Queen, if you only knew! You see I want to generate energy using a process known as fusion- nuclear fusion that is. In a similar way to how our very own sun takes four hydrogen atoms - the most basic element in the universe - and fuses the nuclei to make a single helium atom, releasing large amounts of energy in the process-" He paused to gasp in air, having almost forgotten to breathe in his excitement. "And, well- If we can harness these principles in the laboratory - that is to say, heat and stabilise a self-sustaining plasma-"

Jorah nodded along, looking like he was on the brink of a astonishing revelation. "You could... you could... Seven above! You could digitally store and playback music in a compressed, lossy format." He exclaimed at last, with wonder in his eyes.

Dany and Sam looked at him with pity.

"That's digital audio." Daenerys shook her head.

Mormont shrugged and looked from face-to-face, questioningly.

"MP3, AAC, AC3, DTS, FLAC?" Dany listed the formats off the top of her head.

"Actually-" Sam began. "FLAC and DTS are both lossless- well technically DTS is lossless/lossy, depending on your decoding equipment-"

Daenerys flashed him a cool look. "The point is Ser Jorah, that isn't what Dr Beckett is talking about."

"What I'm talking about," Beckett continued. "Is a reaction that is self-sustaining, uses some of the most common fuel in the universe and will give out almost unlimited, clean energy to usher humankind into a new dawn; and I only need to generate enough targeted heat to begin the reaction!"

Dany smiled as she finally understood. "You need my dragon." She said, simply. "You want me to lend you my child."

Dr Becked simply nodded and looked at her with wide, excited eyes.

"A DRAGON IS NOT A SLAVE!" Screamed Dany, becoming suddenly furious. "And Ser Jorah-" She bellowed. "Isn't this the man you told me put mascara on dogs?"

Jorah puffed up his chest and turned on Dr Beckett, ready to defend his Queen.

Sam put a hand over his mouth and coughed lightly, "Olechka." He coughed. "Olechka."

Mormont backed down immediately, indeed he seemed terrified. "Um, Khaleesi-" He floundered. "I, er- That is to say... I- I believe Dr Beckett to be a fine and honourable gentleman and I- I beg you to consider his petition, which after all could be to the huge benefit of all mankind."

Dany felt herself calming upon Jorah's words, and turned to Dr Beckett thoughtfully. "Add me on Snapchat, DragonQueen69- No sniggering!" She interrupted herself to scold Jorah. "You shall have my answer within the week, Maester Beckett."

Sam bowed low, winking at Jorah when Dany looked away. "My Queen." He said, then took his leave.

"So!" Mormont said with forced cheeriness. "Golden Child and a mug of hot coco?" He extended his arm towards Daenerys.

Dany accepted the proffered arm and felt a warm glow to be back in cahoots with her old companion. "Did you ever find out how Tywin Lannister ended up in that film?" She asked, half-frowning and half-grinning.

"It was a special favour to Eddie Murphy, I think." Jorah answered, as they skipped towards Hogwarts castle. "Turns out Murphy provided some key intelligence that was instrumental in quelling the fomenting Reyne rebellion, before it could gather critical mass. Tywin never forgot his service to the Lannister cause, and so when Michael Ritchie desperately needed just-the-right-kind of loquacious badass to play Sardo Numspa in the new movie he was directing, Murphy's thoughts naturally turned to Tywin."

"And the rest as they say, is history." Dany beamed at Ser Jorah, who flashed back a wide grin of his own.

Just then Dany's phone rang for what seemed like the millionth time that day. She flashed it out of her bodice, then tried to hide the screen from Mormont when she saw who was calling.

"Yes?" She answered curtly. "Mhmm." She nodded. "Ok." Her face fell. "Gods, no! Yes, right away." She said, then hung up.

"Who was that?" Asked Jorah suspiciously.

"It was- it was Jacob." Dany Answered uncomfortably. "He was calling about Hermione. She's... she's gotten engaged to Voldemort!"


	10. Chapter 10

**T** he next few weeks at Hogwarts were a flurry of activity as people prepared for the wedding. It was to take place in the Great Hall, and it seemed like just about everyone in the land was invited. Hermione had been in a terrible dither in the days after she had broken the news to her parents; it turned out that they approved of Voldemort's chivalrous attitudes and sensible financial planning, but could not forgive him for canvassing on behalf of Gary Johnson in the 2016 US General Election. Both of Hermione's parents were dyed-in-the-wool Bernie Sanders supporters and they considered the Libertarian Party literally worse than Hitler. "At least the Nazis had a national healthcare system", they had wept, besides themselves with shock and anger that their little girl could date a Libertarian; roundly ignoring that fact that dear uncle Adolf had in fact euthanised thousands of patients he deemed unworthy of state support, and imprisoned and executed millions more for purely ideological reasons.

Voldemort had been very supportive during this time, but had steadfastly refused to shell out a single penny to put towards the wedding. As a traditionalist, he was adamant that the bride's family must pay. They had briefly considered murdering one of Hermione's parents to get the other one on board, but Dany had talked them out of it and promised to come up with a better solution. Voldemort agreed readily to the idea, but Hermione had seemed sullen and disappointed. She had shaved her head to look like Voldemort, and cut off her own nose, making sure that she used an extremely powerful curse so that it could never be grown back by magical means.

Some days after the conversation, Dany had introduced Hermione to Grawp and they had hit it off right away. Grawp was in awe of Hermione's hacking skills and made a her a proposition that they go into business magically jailbreaking smartphones and tablets for East European criminal gangs. Hermione had been a little disappointed that they wouldn't be involved in the process of stealing the phones themselves, but she made Grawp promise to pass on her ideas of how to best intimidate and punish those people who refused to hand them over. The ideas were quickly adopted, being as innovative and brilliant as they were aberrant and sadistic.

Hermione had also co-opted half of Hogwarts into helping prepare for the wedding through various means of persuasion, both carrotty and stickish alike. Almost all the boys were prepared to do anything for her after she had modded their smartphones to allow them to access Redtube and call premium-rate sex lines for free. The Hogwarts firewall had been horrendously difficult to hack, having been put in place by Dumbledore himself to hide his internet activity from the Feds, but between Hermione's brilliance and Grawp's workman-like tenacity, it had been cracked like a bad egg.

Seamus had been incensed. As a feminist he considered anything even remotely concerning male sexuality to be misogynistic, and the idea of his fellow Gryffindor boys innocently pleasuring themselves to naked females was almost more than he could bear. He had gone to Dumbledore to grass-up the whole operation, but Dumbledore had simply seemed delighted and said.

"Oh, she got through the firewall! She did do the thing properly, didn't she?"

It turned out that Dumbledore was deeply into the East European crime scene, and had his pension tied up in all sorts of nefarious activities from stolen phones, to human trafficking and other less savoury pursuits. He had Ser Jorah on speed dial, the aforementioned knight being one of his best customers. Mormont had a nasty temper and breezed through girls like the wind through corn. Indeed Dumbledore had found a way of tripling his profits all from the same, original transaction. First he sold the girls to Mormont, then he charged him extra to remove the bodies and after that he sold what was left to Snape for double the original price. It helped that Snape liked them looking a bit knocked-around, he said it reminded him of his mother at the end.

Seamus had stalked back to Gryffindor tower, weeping with shame and rage. The next day he organised a protest outside the Gryffindor common room, but only Snape had turned up and that was because of the promise of free poppadoms and chutney. Seamus had been forced to march around outside on his own for all twelve hours of the planned action, waving his placard of a flaccid penis - drawn in exquisite, loving detail as a favour from Crabbe - until his arms ached and his back groaned for him to stop. The only person Seamus had met during the whole half-day he was there was Dumbledore, who strode out of the tower on the very stroke of the twelfth hour, tenderly stroking his magically jailbroken HTC U11.

"For watching cute little animal videos when I'm not connected to the ethernet in my tower." He had winked at Seamus, with a cunning gleam in his eye. "I do so like aardvarks."

Seamus found out later that the reason he had been all alone for the entire twelve hours was that Dumbledore had phase-shifted him into a different reality - an exact replica of our own - but devoid of a single person. No one quite knew how Snape had gotten into it, but his prowess at sniffing out a free meal was legendary. People had stopped inviting him along on nights out after the fifth time he'd 'forgotten' his wallet, although the pungent smell of rotting meat and his habit of getting drunk, snapping his greasy fingers and calling all the waiters 'Abdul' also had something to do with it, in all fairness.

Seamus had caused a scene in the common room that night by staging a dirty protest in his pants, until Jacob had gotten thoroughly tired of it and thrown him out of the window again. The young Irishman was still covered in bandages from the fall, having deeply offended Madam Pomfrey after accusing her of 'internalising her misogyny' for the crime of her being satisfied to remain 'only a nurse'. Pomfrey could have fixed him in a jiffy, but was refusing to even look at the angry young feminsit after his bitter accusations agaisnt her. Seamus considered nurses misogynistic of course, alongside any opinion expressed by a male, the paper industry and cream crackers.

 **G** andalf had arrived at Hogwarts sometime during the last week, but no one had seen him since he had rolled up to the front gate needing to prised off his moped, white beard stiff with frost and arms locked in riding position. He was a particularly careful driver and refused to go above three-miles-per-hour, even on the motorways. The journey up from Cornwall had taken nearly ten days non-stop, and his flowing yellowy-white robes reeked of exhaust fumes and excreta.

Since his appearance, Gandalf and Dumbledore had been locked in the latter's tower and no one had seen sight nor sound of either man. It was said that at night, strange lights could be seen flickering from the windows, and Cho Chang swore she had heard some sort of demonic chanting and caterwauling early one morning, carried down on an ominous wind. The inhabitants of Hogwarts had laughed off these reports, albeit nervously. Surely the two greatest wizards of the age couldn't be plotting anything too nefarious they reasoned, with uneasy glances towards the tower.

 **O** nly Jacob and Dany seemed to notice Colin's long absences from proceedings, and his increasingly frequent late night jaunts to various homeless shelters and soup kitchens in Diagon Alley, and elsewhere. Jacob was all for bumping him off as quickly as possible - he'd been sharpening his skinning knives in preparation for days - but Dany had recommended caution. She was just as suspicious as Jacob over the Nor-folkian's disappearances, but Dany felt it would be better to try and find out more information and butcher him afterwards once the intelligence had been obtained. If he was working with the Night King as they suspected, he might possess valuable knowledge that they would not be able to obtain in any other way.

Of all the people rushing around the school in those days, by far the busiest was The Hound. He had been placed in charge of illumination and candles, and was often showing up in the most unexpected places, brandishing a theodolite and a light-meter. He had fiercely petitioned Dumbledore to have the enchanted ceiling painted-over, as the luminescence was simply too unpredictable; but in the end they had settled for hanging a magically engorged piece of pink netting from the roof in order to minimise its interruption.

Snape had put himself in charge of food and drink. No one was quite sure how he'd gotten the job, being a disgusting cook (and person in general,) but he seemed to have some sort of influence over McGonagall and she had all but insisted he be allowed to 'create his masterpiece' with the help of the more-than-competent House Elves. He was planning an experimental fusion menu, taking in delicious cuisines from all over the globe and making them singularly inedible, (if his finger buffets were anything to go by.) Snape was the only man in existence known to have burnt water, he had also accidentally poisoned the Minister for Magic with a simple grilled cheese sandwich, so that all his body hair fell out; and he had made a bus-load of children go blind with his homemade dandelion and nettle cordial. Voldemort had been delighted with the choice; he was especially looking forward to trying Snape's trout and espresso ice-cream, and the dragonfly jambalaya had the Dark Lord all but shivering with boyish anticipation.

Hermione was happy as long as Voldemort was happy. By happy, that is to say of course that she was frantic with stress and worry, not helped by the fact that Voldemort had casually advised her that she could stand to lose a few pounds before the big day. She was lightheaded with hunger from starving herself, and feeling horrendously guilty from all the binge eating - and vomiting - she had been doing on the sly. A naturally slight girl, Hermione's bones were already beginning to poke out of her delicate white skin, giving her a haunted, skeletal look. In the last few days she had taken to overdosing on suppositories and was liable to soil herself at any given moment, having lost all but the most perfunctory control of her bowels. Her stools fitted in perfectly at Hogwarts, being little more than ectoplasmic, beige jelly, with a slightly fruity, acidic odour; indeed very like Peeves the poltergeist, as several unfortunate witness to her 'little accidents' noted.

This similarity was not lost on the mischievous apparition himself, and Peeves could often be heard flying around the castle singing;

" _Oh Granger, you danger!_

 _Oh what have you done?_

 _You're cacking your panties,_

 _You think it's good fun!_ "

Indeed there was barely a chair in Gryffindor tower that did not now bear its own bespoke sepia blotch, like a scratch-and-sniff Rorschach test that spoke of nothing but tragedy to all who had the misfortune to gaze, or sit upon them. Hermione would wait until she thought everyone was asleep at night to sneak down into the common room and begin scrubbing and weeping in earnest. Somehow Professor Trelawney had been made aware of these stains (Jacob suspected Parvati and Lavendar,) and had taken to embarrassing Hermione by visiting the tower in the evenings to dramatically read in them auguries of death and sexual dysfunction.

 **B** eric had given up trying to convince Hermione to get married according to the doctrine of the Lord of Light. She had been quite receptive of the idea at first, but had gone off it when the Lightning Lord had point-blank refused to burn any children as part of the ceremony. It was all moot however, as Voldemort was insisting on a voodoo wedding, with freeform jazz-scat singers to accompany Hermione down the aisle. He had been quite taken with the idea of a satanic wedding until the two men had quarrelled over the honorific 'Dark Lord', at which point Voldemort had tweaked Lucifer on the nose and promptly taken up Louisiana Voodoo; partly to spite him and partly just because he loved that old-time creole jazz.

Hermione's father was stubbornly resisting all and any efforts made by the girl's friends to consent to giving his daughter away. The young bride was devastated by this turn of events, but nothing could be said or done to persuade him. Several people noted with no little respect that for a middle-class dentist, Mr Granger was proving remarkably resistant to the various, brutal tortures that Voldemort was having him subjected to. It was becoming increasingly obvious to all involved that his mind would break before his body, but his will would outlast both; although this did not stop Voldemort devising new and appalling persecutions to visit upon him on a daily basis.

It was unconscionable to a traditionalist such as the Dark Lord for his bride not to be given away by her legal father, and so he was adding to Hermione's stress by insisting that she divorce her parents and allow herself to be adopted by Draco Malfoy; whom Voldemort assured would make a wonderful, supporting father. Hermione had begged, cried and pleaded to be allowed to keep her natural-born sires, but had reluctantly consented to the plan after Voldemort had threatened to call off the wedding in one of his trademark fits of perverse, insouciant malice. He had taken to calling Draco 'Daddy' and likewise Malfoy was now delighting in grinning broadly, winking and calling the Dark Lord 'Sonny', at any given opportunity.

Draco was not so kind to Hermione however. As her legal guardian, he was now insisting that she run his errands, make him cups of tea and massage his stinking feet of an evening. He banned Hermione from spending time with certain 'bad influences' - Jacob amongst them - and imposed a strict four pm curfew on all her activities. This gave Hermione precisely one half hour to socialise, and do her homework after classes finished, and then she was expected to be tucked up in bed, ready for her fifteen hours of beauty sleep. Malfoy also made constant, derogatory comments about her appearance and general life choices; threatening to withdraw her from Hogwarts if she so much as thought about refusing his demands, or answering back. He had taken to smoking an enormous curved pipe - intricately carved from an actual rhino horn - and wearing tartan slippers and a twill dressing gown around the castle. Voldemort thoroughly approved of this turn of events, and was going to have himself adopted by Draco too until Amycus Carrow pointed out that doing so would technically make him and his bride-to-be brother and sister. Voldemort briefly considered calling the wedding off so he could legitimately allow Malfoy to become the father he never had; but in the end the Louisianan in him won out and he decided to marry his own sister.

And then, after what seemed like years crammed into a few scant weeks of hurried organisation, stress, tears and uncontrollable diarrhoea; the day of the wedding was finally upon them!


	11. Chapter 11

**T** he Great Hall was packed full on the morning of the ceremony, with a thousand people if there was a single one, all jostling and rustling and whispering to each other in excited tones. The only exception to this teeming press of folk was a small, but noticable gap around Pennywise the clown, whom the gathered celebrants seemed to want to avoid all contact with. He looked slightly hurt by this, but being used to it after decades of inspiring terror into the hearts of almost all who looked upon him; he was able to take the snub philosophically, whilst also making note of the ones with children for later.

It was widely supposed that he must be on the groom's side - indeed in his infinite Machiavellian cunning, he had said as much to the usher and now stood next to such evil luminaries as Lucius Malfoy, grandfather of the groom and paterfamilia of the wider Malfoy clan, Zombie Hitler, who was delighting everyone with his repetroire of racist jokes, and Lady Gaga. The truth was that Pennywise knew none of these people, he'd gotten addicted to the glamour and romance of weddings during one of his more notorious killing sprees back in the 1920s and had been gatecrashing them ever since. If he ever got found out, he'd turn into the guest's worst nightmares and terrify them all until they left him alone, or called off the wedding. He was happy with either outcome, being as bitter as he was malevolant. Unfortunately for wizards, the spell 'ridikulus' did not work on Pennywise's species, although he had many Boggart cousins and they each looked upon the other with respect, sometimes teaming up to inflict maximum punishment on the innocent people they daunted, then murdered.

The only person Pennywise actually knew at the ceremony was Snape, and that was only because they happened to frequent some of the same sewers from time to time. They also shared the same psychiatrist, and would regularly meet in the waiting room and pretend not to know each other, whilst studiously pouring over an out-of-date 'country life' magazine, as if it wasn't complete shit with almost no entertainment value whatsoever.

One of the most remarkable things about the wedding was the lighting, completed by the Hound just moments before the first guests arrived in the Great Hall. He had somehow contrived through an almost impossibly complex array of candles, mirrors, pulleys, a smoke-machine, randomly dangling crystals at mathematically precise intervals and mild neurotoxins; to cause the air to glow with a radiant, golden light which made the scene look like something out of a fairytale.

Tywin Lannister - who had some experience in the movie business - had been so impressed with the set up that he later recommended The Hound to movie director John McTiernan, who Tywin had worked with on the Arnold Schwarzeneger adventure-comedy Last Action Hero. The Hound had been delighted to work with the man behind his all time favourite Christmas film - this being Die Hard - and had gone on to win multiple awards for his inventive and novel lighting displays. He received a Hollywood star in 2040, and a lifetime achievement award in 2047; retiring to his own private island not long after, a contented and happy man.

 **S** uddenly a hush descended around the room as the large doors at the head of the hall swung open, and Hermione appeared, taking slow, purposeful forward steps. As she entered the chamber, music went up; it seemed to fill the cavernous space with it's freeform jazz stylings.

" _Skee-Be-Dee-Do-Wa-Wop-Ba-Da-Ba-Doh-Bop-"_ Sang Tyrion and Flich, dressed in matching lilac suits, with ruffed shirts and sparkly top hats. " _Dab-Ba-Do-Wop-Wap-Wib-Ske-Diddle-De-Be-Bop-Bap-Bip-_ "

Snape started screeching on a trumpet, sounding like an angry elephant in a pure-helium atmosphere. If he'd ever played before in his life, it didn't show.

" _RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAW_ -" He shrieked at odd intervals. " _BWRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP_ -"

Voldemort stood at the end of the aisle in his plum kaftan, clicking his fingers and quivering excitedly to the fierce freestyle.

"Yes!" He kept muttering to himself at particularly unexpected motifs. "He knows time, baby! He knows time!"

A succession of formal footwear began wheeling ballistic arcs through the air towards Snape; he sucessfully ducked the first volley, but was roundly battered on the follow-up. He crawled off stage as the chairs began to fly, weeping bitter tears of humiliation, and bleeding heavily from cuts to his scalp and face. This delighted Voldemort even more; he seemed to consider violence a sort of music of itself, and bopped his head ecstaticly to Snape's degredation, forefinger and thumb still clicking away rapidly.

Hermione was wearing a white, Louis Vuitton wedding gown, cut low around the bosom with a delicate lace front for modesty. The dress hugged her waist, forming a series of artful creases before billowing out in overlapping, diagonal pleats all the way to her dainty, crystal-shod feet. Around her neck she wore a thin silk choker, clevery woven over itself in a complex, beautiful pattern, before ending in a bow. She carried a ravishing boquet of white dahlias, silver brunia, coral peonies, spray roses, and Versilia roses, bound together with gold ribbon.

The gorgeous bride kept looking around the hall in anticipation, as if she was expecting to see someone. She leant anxiously over to Dany. "Have you seen my best friend Sebastian?" She whispered. "He was supposed to be here this morning; little florid chap- Caribbean accent?"

Dany shrugged to indicate that she had no idea who Hermione was referring to.

Following in the bride's wake - looking giddy as a pair of schoolgirls - were the bridesmaids, Dumbledore - going by the moniker 'Deedee' for the day; and Gandalf, who was to be known as 'Geedee'. They wore matching peach Karl Lagerfeld dresses with gold bows in their exquisitely braided, flowing silver hair. On their feet were glittering golden splippers and they carried small boquets of bicolour calla lillies, the salmon-pink spathes bleeding into golden lustre.

It is no exagerration to say that there was not a dry eye in the house. The assembled throng looked on with happiness and wonder, none moreso than Pennywise the clown who was noisily blowing his nose on a child's bloody, severed arm; he lived for these moments.

At Hermione's shoulder was a very proud looking Dacao Malfoy. He was wearing his fetching twill dressing gown and tartan slippers combination, and had magically grown large Victorian-style gentlemen's whiskers just for the occasion. He smiled elatedly at Hermione, taking her in with a fatherly look of approval.

"You look magical." He whispered, in her trembling ear."

Hermione - forgetting her anxiety - beamed with pleasure.

"If I've been too hard on you, I'm sorry my dear." Malfoy continued, stepping slowly between the two rows of weeping guests. "It's just I only want what's best for you, you're so talented, so capable, so... brilliant!" He cleared the lump that was rising in his throat. "The world is your oyster my sweet summer child, and today you've made me the happiest father in the world; you have never looked more beautiful."

Hermione's eyes shone as she fought back tears.

" _Skal-Ad-A-Bee-Bo-Do-Skoop-De-Ba-Da-Baw-Bop-De-De-Do-Wop-Wap_." Scatted Tiny-T and Grandmaster Filch in perfect unison, now tapdancing on their respective podiums.

After what seemed like a lifetime they arrived at the end of the Isle, where Voldemort waited; he was looking over one shoulder and grinning from ear to ear. Draco reached out a hand and gave him a fatherly squeeze of the shoulder, and then nodding his head, he gave his precious daughter away.

The priest was a small man with a flat nose, he was missing an ear and his teeth flashed brown and rotten when he gave the bride a leering smile.

"Craster!" Hermione exclaimed, recognising the man. "I- I didn't realise you were a voodoo priest, I er- thought you were into scientology."

Craster looked at his feet and seemed a bit forlorn. "I ran out of money." He mumbled. "Went back to the only thing I know, the religion of my own people; Louisiana Hoodoo."

Voldemort reached out a cold, pale hand and wrapped his long fingers around the older man's elbow. "You never truly left brother, but it's good to have you back all the same."

Craster brightened a bit at this. "I need to ask you a few questions before we begin." He said, looking first at the bride and then at the groom, who both nodded serious assent.

"Do you know of any reason why the Loa might object to this union? Speak now my children, before its too late."

Hermione bit her lip and opened her mouth to talk. She gaped like a fish for a few moments and then finally spoke. "It's just- we're just- I mean, not really- but technically, I suppose-"

Voldemort smiled indulgently. "I think my dear bride-to-be is trying to tell you that we are siblings."

Craster smiled widely when he heard this. "Siblings!" He leered, licking his ruddy lips and looking almost deranged with happiness. "Siblings-" He suddered and closed his eyes as if to savour the effect the word was having on him. "The most sexual marraige of all!" He ate Hermione up with deranged eyes. "Worry not chile, this is no problem in our religion; in fact it's a bonus! I'll even do the ceremony for free if you let me join in?"

Voldemort looked at Hermione appealingly, it was obvious the answer he was hoping for. Hermione was repulsed by the old lecher in front of her, but being very attuned to her beloved's moods and desires, she granted him this wish on their wedding day - with one caveat.

"You may join in," she told Craster. "But only after our honeymoon; until then I want my gorgeous husband entirely to myself."

"Such wisdom in one so fair an' young." Craster marvelled, becoming erect. "It's a deal." He began shaking a voodoo rattle in one hand, whilst scattering some sort of hard, wheat like substance over the floor with his other. In a flurry of movement, so quuick as to be almost a blur, he produced some frozen chicken breasts from one sleeve and a rubber snake from the other.

"Technically these are supposed to be alive-" He confessed to the pair apologetically. "But I was stopped by the police on the motorway and they confiscated my travelling petting zoo. I had to make do with what I could find at the rest stop."

"It happens." Said Voldemort philosophically, giving the celophane-wrapped chicken a friendly pat. "Good chook." He cooed. "Nice little chookie."

Hermione looked at him with a fierce pride, blinking seeds out of her irritated eyes.

The rest of the ceremony passed like a happy dream. Craster drew shapes in the cornmeal and danced about, invoking spirits to watch the union and trying gain their approval with offerings of an A-Z road atlas and a can of diet Sprite. When it was all over, Voldemort and Hermione kissed, whilst Craster rubbed vigorously at something in his pocket; then everyone cheered and gold and silver streamers shot into the air, as if by magic.

 **N** ext it was time for the reception. With a wave of Deedee's nobbled wand, several large tables appeared around the hall, covered in fine white linen and laden with gleaming silver cutlery. As the guests seated themselves, Dumbledore cleared his throat and began to talk.

"Ladies and gentlemen." He gazed around the room fondly. "Thank you all for joining us here today for this, most magical of occasions. Dinner will be served in just a moment, but before we all become too befuddled with Snape's excrement- I mean excellent feast, please put your hands together for the best man, father of the bride, father of the groom, and father of all our hearts- Mr Draco Malfoy!"

People began banging cutlery on the tables and the cry went up of "Speech! Speech!"

Draco stood up, rumpled notes in hand and gazed around the room benevolently until absolute silence had fallen.

"Ladies and gentlemen... and Snape." He began, as Snape wailed unhappily from down in the kitchens at the slight. "Never before has such a magestic gathering of notable luminaries come together for half so auspicious an occasion. It is my deep privelage and honour to address you here today, in my capacity of groom's best man." He tipped his head to Voldemort. "You know," Malfoy drawled on, "when this guy over here called me up at three in the morning, breathlessley gibbering about 'finding the one'; I must admit I thought he'd discovered another innocent baby he wanted to slaughter-"

A slight titter went up around the room. Voldemort slapped his thighs in delight.

"'No!' He shouted." Malfoy continued.

"'I'm talking about a union, an alliance, a merger of two perfect souls-'"

He took a sip of water. "Surely not!" I said. "Those horcruxes exist to keep you safe!

'Don't be silly!' Voldemort chided me. 'I'm talking about another person entirely; they're the wittiest, charmingest, sexiest-'

'Look, Voldy- I'm flattered...' I began."

Another small chuckle went up around the room.

"But it turned out he was talking of someone else entirely!" Draco went on. "Well, love is blind after all."

Malfoy turned his attention to Hermione. "I'm joking of course." He smiled. "Just look at her though- just look everybody." He took her in with watery eyes as the crowd went 'aaaah'.

"My little girl, all grown up, so kind, so brave... so beautiful. I think I feel the bittersweet pangs that every father must feel on his daughter's wedding day. On the one hand of course, I'm overcome with pride; I'm so very proud of what she's become." He buffed Hermione's shining bald head with a tender shirtsleeve and gave her a soft kiss on her ruined nose. "But on the other, I feel a great, pressing sadness..." He let it hang. "Yes indeed, I feel a great pressing sadness, knowing as I do what happened to Voldemort's previous wives." Draco sighed dramatically. "But enough! Enough about all those shallow graves in Little Hangleton, the desperate finger marks on the inside of makeshift coffins; this is no time to talk about the eight separate police investigations-"

Voldemort, beaming broadly wagged a long, indulgent finger at Malfoy. "Naughty naughty!" He chided, seeming well-pleased.

"As a great man once said," Malfoy resumed. "Love means never having to say you're sorry; which is just as well as Voldemort lacks even the ghost of a conscience." He put an arm around a worried looking Hermione and gave her a comforting squeeze.

"But no one could be more delighted, more proud, more privileged to be here today; and I know I speak for everyone when I say-" He raised a glass of champagne. "To the happy couple, long may they live in wedded bliss!"

Everyone tapped silver spoons on their raised glasses, before cheering and taking a good long draught.

 **A** fter the speech came the food, lovingly crafted and prepared by Snape, who had not slept in two weeks in preparation for the big event. For a starter, the guests had a choice of:

 _Rattlesnake & Plum Vol-Au-Vents_

 _or_

 _Fanta & Marlboro Light Soup_

 _or_

 _Leech & Pineapple On A Stick, Dipped In Moth Eggs_

Most people chose to go hungry, except for Lady Gaga who was used to far more sickening fare from the spirit cooking parties she held with her satanist friends. She plopped out a hairy breast at the table and dribbled foul-smelling milk all over her plate, offering it around and seeming offended when everyone but Pennywise turned up their noses. She dipped her leeches in the reeking liquid and gobbled them down hungrily, chanting bizarely deep in her throat as she did so.

Once the starter was out of the way, it was time for the main course. Everyone agreed that Snape had outdone himself, and they all wished fervently that he hadn't. The hand-drawn menu on pressed, eggshell-textured card read:

 _Sweet-Candied Elephant Spine In A Rich Stilton Sauce_

 _or_

 _Severus' Mixed Meat Enigma! (Containing Fermented Yak Genitals, Minted Aardvark Tongues And Slow-Roasted Puppy Hearts.)_

 _or_

 _Dragonfly & Bilberry Jambalaya_

And written in different ink - as if it had been added after the rest - it just said:

 _Bridal Surprise: You'll Just Have To Wait And See!_

For desert there was the choice of:

 _Octopus Trifle_

 _Spicy Carrot Blancmange_

 _Trout & Espresso Ice Cream: Made With Lady G's Boobie Squirt!_

And the drinks list simply read:

 _Snape's Basil and Wild Sage Cordial: Non-Alcoholic; may induce seizures and severe hallucinations in children, the elderly, the infirm and the perfectly healthy._

 _The Potion Master's Special Brew: An Artisan Wine Lovingly Fermented From Only The Finest Parsnips_

For the 'vegetarian option', Snape had just written _The Door,_ in sassy pink letters.

Several people vomited just looking at the menu, and even the tyrannical reprobate Lady Gaga turned her nose up this time. Eating innocent Haitian orphans was one thing, but Snape's cooking was too evil even for her to countenance. Voldemort - who had been greatly looking forward to the jambalaya - ate half a forkful before turning green and pushing his plate away in disgust. It was full of bluebottles and smelled like Professor Trelawney. Almost all the food went back down to the kitchens untouched, although Filch did sneak some into a doggy bag for use as a handy rodent deterrent. There was no mistaking Snape's cry of artistic frustration when he found out that no one had eaten his painstakingly prepared masterpiece, it drifted up from the kitchens sounding like nothing more than a depressed banshee.

Hermione had been saving herself for Severus' 'Bridal Surprise', for which she was really rather grateful as the other fare looked utterly inedible. Snape brought this out himself, carrying it proudly on a silver platter covered with a large, hemispherical lid. Hermione's eyes nervously scanned the crowd, still looking for her best friend Sebastian, who had phoned her from the airport as soon as he had arrived from the tropical waters of the Caribbean, but failed to contact her since. She was growing increasingly worried about him; he was just a little thing after all - and incredibly vulnerable - despite the hard outer shell he presented to the world.

"My dear," Snape grinned down at her simperingly. "Let me present the piece de resistance, my ultimate creation, my opus-" He whipped the lid away to reveal a steaming red lobster on a bed of gillyweed.

"SEBASTIAN!" Shrieked Hermione, her face contorted with agony. "SEBASTIAN, NO!" She looked at Snape aghast. "What- What have you done?"

Snape froze. "Come again?"

Hermione could not seem to prise her eyes away from the horrifying sight before her. Tears streaked down her face and long ropes of snot began dripping from the scarred slits where her nose used to be.

Snape laughed nervously, looking around the room. "She's overcome with emotion, poor dear. One quick taste of my delicious boiled lobster will have her cheered up in no time-"

As Snape mentioned the word 'lobster', Hermione let out another, even louder shriek. She tore at her face, looking absolutely deranged.

"YOU MURDERED HIM! YOU MURDERED SEBASTIAN!" She screamed, pointing an accusing finger at Snape. "HE WAS MY BEST FRIEND IN ALL THE WORLD, AND YOU MURDERED HIM!"

Snape looked from the steaming crustacean, to Hermione, as recognition began to dawn on his face. "You don't mean-"

"YES!" Hermione shrieked. "YOU- YOU BOILED MY BEST FRIEND ALIVE! YOU DEGENERATE! YOU IDIOT! YOU MONSTER!"

Just at that moment, Dobby the house elf appeared in the hall with a loud 'crack'.

"Dobby is sorry mistress Hermione." He addressed the manic bride. "Dobby tried to tell Professor Snape-" He flashed a dirty look at the potions master as he said his name. "That Sebastian was a magical creature... and a wonderful person- Dobby could tell it instantly, but Professor Snape wouldn't believe Dobby-"

"I don't take orders from a house elf!" Snape spat, dismissively.

Professor McGonagall stood up with a weary sigh. "Severus," she began. "Surely you must have realised that this was a sentient creature you were dealing with? I'm familiar with Sebastian from his work in The Little Mermaid, he was full of vivacity, full of energy, so full of... life." She cast a despairing look to the rapidly cooling lobster on the silver platter. "How could you have missed the signs?"

Snape looked frantically from face to face as everyone glared at him furiously. "It's just-" He stammered. "I just-"

"WHAT?" The crowd all spoke at once.

"I thought it was a practical joke by Tiny-T."

Tyrion lifted his head from his hands and looked at Snape with red-rimmed eyes. "You've just killed the greatest reggae singer who ever lived." His voice was broken, but livid. "His nineteen-ninety-one album, 'Sebastian: Party Gras!' is what got me into music in the first place. You've just murdered my hero, how dare you try to blame this on me!"

Snape wiped the sweat away from his already greasy brow. "Murder- it's such a... strong word." He cringed. "You have to understand-" He went on desperately, addressing Tiny-T; "that when I came across a talking lobster, claiming to be here for 'de wedding', with that ridiculous bloody accent you always to sing in-"

"That's racist!" Seamus jumped up, looking outraged.

"Shut the f-" Everyone else began, then realised that for once, the perpetually offended Irishman was actually bang on the money with this one. It was racist, indeed wildly so.

McGonagall rounded on Snape. "He was from the Caribbean, you blithering idiot!" She castigated the hapless cullinarian. "That's how people talk over there!"

"I met him on a snorkelling holiday in Jamaica-" Hermione's voice was thick with emotion. "We used to speak every single night on the phone. He was my rock-" Her voice broke and she swooned where she stood.

Malfoy caught her, then gave his daughter a comforting rub on the back whilst looking coldly at Snape, shaking his head in disgust. Voldemort was following proceedings with an undisguised delight. At every new revelation, he'd gasp, or hiss like he was part of the crowd in a daytime talkshow. When McGonagall strode towards Snape, Voldemort began pumping his fist in the air and chanting "Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!"

"Well-" Said McGonagall to Hermione with as much kindness as she could muster in her rage. "At least he didn't suffer. It will have all been over in a heartbeat-"

Dobby coughed.

Snape looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. "Er-"

McGonagall shook her head at him almost imperceptibly, but Snape either didn't see, or was too flustered to take the hint.

"It's just, well... The water wasn't quite boiling when I dropped him in."

"Severus..." McGonagall warned, but he paid her no heed.

"I was worried about burning it again- the water, I mean." Snape continued. "So it was scalding, but not quite on the boil. I mean, he shrieked for quite some time. In hindsight, I should have guessed something might be amiss when he begged me to put a knife in his head, just to end the agony."

"How long?" Hermione blubbered. "How long did he suffer like this."

"Oh, no more than twenty-minutes- er, half-an hours tops I can assure you!" Snape answered quickly. He looked genuinely perplexed when this answer seemed to cause the unhappy bride even more pain.

Voldemort took this opportunity to cup his hands around his mouth and exclaim a long, drawn out: "Oooh!"

"Half-an-hour!" She cried. "Half-an-hour of pure agony, begging for death! Oh my sweet Sebastian, my poor, dear Sebastian..." She broke off into another fit of sobbing.

Dobby coughed again, looking accusingly at Snape.

Snape pursed his lips, looked at Dobby then continued. "Well, it was more like six hours really; when you consider the refrigeration after all the lemon and pepper I rubbed in his eyes... oh and the stick of sugarcane I jammed up his bu-"

Another Dobby cough.

Snape sighed. "And, well... I might have snapped off a leg or two to see if he was fresh." Snape admitted. "He kept screaming 'why are you doin' dis to me, mon?'" Snape chuckled at the memory, before a room full of shocked gasps brought him back to the present and he smiled sheepishly. "This is all just a joke isn't it? You're all pulling my leg-"

Hermione wailed even louder at this reminder of her best friend's torture.

"Aren't you?" Continued Snape, chuckling with relief. "Singing lobsters from the Caribbean, indeed!" He laughed. "Ah yes, let's all laugh at Snape; you got me good, I'll admit it-" He broke off a claw, wagged it at the assembled throng as if to chide them for their insouciance, then noisily began sucking out the white meat inside.

The hall descended into uproar, Snape's carefully-prepared banquet began flying in all directions as people threw whatever they could lay their hands on at the hapless cook. The first he realised what was going on was when he was hit in the throat by a candied elephant spine, partly crushing his windpipe and causing him to fall to his knees, gasping for breath.

"I'll handle this." Dumbledore said with authority, striding over to the straining figure of the potions master who was now partly buried in his own octopus trifle.

Deedee pulled his wand out of his sleeve and, reaching Snape, jabbed it in his eye and began bellowing. "You stupid cunt, look what you've done! I'll fucking murder you, you little twat!" He kicked Snape with all his might, then bent over the wheezing figure to pummel him with furious blows.

He was still screaming in a savage rage as he was dragged off by Pennywise, who was shocked to see such brutality; Deedee's peach dress billowed out in front of him, his thin white legs still kicking the air as he was removed forcibly from the scene.

Snape turned red, then blue, then white, as he clutched at his throat, spraying chunks of lobster meat all over the bride in his desperation to draw breath. Zombie Hitler danced around the scene, providing a running commentary of events, whilst tittering to himself as he recorded everything for his Youtube channel. In all the confusion, Lady Gaga took the opportunity to steal some crying babies for use in her satanic rituals, and was never seen at Hogwarts again.

Snape was rushed off to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey gave him a fifty/fifty chance of survival through the night. It all depended if the locks on the doors held, she said; as around a hundred people battered on them in order to finish the job that Deedee had started.

 **E** ventually the tables in the great hall were cleared and the lights dimmed. A stage magically sprang up at the far end, and a massive glitterball appeared overhead. Smoke billowed out into the confined space and dramatic organ music heralded an announcement.

"And now-" A deep voice boomed. "All the way from Middle-Earth, via Hogwarts; the moment you've all been waiting for- It's Deedee and Geedee, reunited at last!"

A funky bass rhythm started up, which after some sixteen bars was joined by some hi-hats. Two figures bopped onto the stage, which was shrouded in darkness and smoke; the only thing visible was their billowing outlines and beautifully braided beards. The figures began to move in mirror image of one another as the hi-hats kept time.

 _"Un-ss-un-ss-un-ss-un-ss"_

The figures joined hands and did the butterfly, stepping around each other in perfect time to the beat.

A watching Cho Chang turned pale. "This is it!" She shouted, in terror. "This is the demonic caterwauling I've been hearing from Dumbledore's tower!"

Jacob grinned broadly. "This isn't demonic caterwauling, it's disco!"

Just then a bass drum started pounding out a four-four beat and a symphony of strings took up an inspirational theme, as a wah-wah guitar dove in and out with a syncopated, funky rhythm. The stage was lit up, revealing Deedee and Geedee in their peach dresses, hair now sparkling with multi-coloured glitter which constantly changed hue in the revolving disco-lights.

Still keeping a perfect mirror image of one another, they began the point move, made famous by John Travolta in the gritty 1977 classic, Saturday Night Fever. Their fingers flew through the hazy air in beautiful, fluid motion, before breaking on the drum-fill to roll their fists in front of their stomachs and jerk out alternate thumbs to each side on every fourth revolution. After this they broke their symmetry, with Geedee taking the lead and spinning Deedee around the stage by his finger until he was just a blur of perfect, whirling enterprise.

The strings died down and the bass line grew exceptionally dirty; Deedee came to a rest, standing in front of Geedee and both men linked fingers and did a double face wave, elbows flapping as their arms undulated like a living oscilloscope demonstrating the frequency of a full-body orgasm. The crowd screamed, partly in terror and partly in a wild, sexual frenzy. All manner of underwear began flying through the air onto the stage, as the stunned spectators started taking off anything they could lay their hands on to salute the magnificent old bastards gyrating in front of them. Geedee effortlessly dodged a prosthetic leg, which sailed by his smiling head and clattered to the stage behind him; he didn't even miss a beat.

After half an hour of the most opulent romping any of the spectators had seen in their hitherto sheltered, miserable lives; the pair embraced on stage, weeping along with the emotional audience. Linking hands, they bowed deeply, beards brushing the floor, as the lights went down.

 **F** or the Honeymoon, Voldemort had organised the epic 'Horcrux 2017' odyssey. First up was a jet-skiing adventure in the underground lake by the sea; he had enchanted some inferi to pilot a speedboat and some others to set up a tricky, but manageable obstacle course; the centrepiece of which was a large ramp which afforded a daredevil opportunity to jump over the horcrux incorporating island. As an added excitement, the Dark Lord left his powerful spells of protection in place, so that any mistakes which resulted in a disturbance of the water by human touch would lead to a cold and lonely death at the hands of the inferi.

Survival permitting, the happy couple would briefly return to Hogwarts for an orienteering weekend in the Room of Requirement. The following Monday was to be taken up by a romantic, candlelit dinner in Marvolo's stinking hovel; outside which Voldemort had set up an erotic five-hundred foot zip-line for some extra amusement; then it was back to Hogwarts for a murder-mystery evening in the Chamber of Secrets curated by Snape, in which Voldemort had to murder someone then try to get away with it (his favourite past time). After this they were to take the Knight Bus to Godrick's Hollow for 'board game night', followed by a cheese and wine tasting session at Bathilda Bagshot's and then an epic, 12 hour session of D&D in the Potter House (to which Hermione wasn't invited.)

At the end of all this, Voldemort had organised for Hermione to hunt her first muggle through the dungeons of Gringots Wizarding Bank. The victim - Mr Granger - was said to be nervous, but fancied his chances against his cunning, but physically weak former daughter. Hermione had already put her shoulder out practising the Cruciatus Curse, and was planning to copy her beloved by marking the death of her birth father with the creation of her first horcrux, which she intended to place in a dog-eared, signed copy of Jacob's game-changing re-write of 'Hogwarts: A History.'

Draco Malfoy was to accompany the happy couple on all stages of the trip, partly to make sure there was no funny business, but mostly because Voldemort found Hermione shrill and a bit boring. In the end they spent most of their time together, laughing and joking around whilst Hermione read a book in some dark corner, far more content than you might expect for a bride who has been snubbed for the company of her own father, by none other than her own brother; which is just a rather protracted way of saying that everyone had a perfectly magical time.


	12. Chapter 12

**D** umbledore lay back on the squishy feather bed in his tower, panting; a sheen of sweat covered his body from head to toe.

"That was... magical." He told Gandalf, who fell onto the pillow beside him.

"I agree, we should do this more often." Gandalf said wisely. "But don't tell Frodo, he'll want to join in and he's far too kinky, even for me."

Dumbledore smiled. "Does he still hang around with that biker gang- what were they called? The Gaping Bears?"

"No, he was thrown out." Dumbledore frowned. "He wouldn't tell me why, something to do with 'disrespecting the handlebars and putting them to improper use', I think he said."

Dumbledore laughed. "Goodness, he is a saucy little fellow! If it's not nailed down, he'll shove it up his-"

Just then Tom Bombadil popped up from beneath the sheets, wiping his chin.

"Hey doll, merry doll, gargle well, my hearty!" He cried, falling onto the pillow besides Dumbledore and swallowing. "Was that Frodo old Tom heard you talking about? Poor lamb."

Dumbledore seemed surprised. "I would have thought you had more reason than most to dislike the young rascal?" He looked at Bombadil questioningly.

Bombadil shrugged easily. "Frodo's never done Tom no harm, not that he knows of and he knows quite a lot!" He breezed in his sing-song manner.

It was now Gandalf's turn to seem perplexed. "But you were- you were absolutely livid when they cut you from the Fellowship of the Ring! You said you were going to take an Uber down to Hobbiton and 'skin the little bastard alive'."

Bombadil just laughed. "Well he did, old Tom did just what you said, only things weren't quite what they seemed; no indeed my merry doll!" He chuckled at the memory. "I banged on that door in Bag End till my hand was numb, screaming obscenities until the air turned blue, did I! And when Frodo finally answered - and invited me in - I pulled my shiv out of my pocket and aimed it right at his eyes, ready to shank him good! Oh ho ho." Bombadil shook his head fondly at the happy memory. "But it turned out he'd been conned out of the rights to his book by Peter Jackson- it wasn't his fault at all my hearties! Indeed, old Tom could see that he was quite despondent about the whole affair, but there was nothing he could do. Apparently Jackson had some hidden camera footage of Frodo forcing old Sam Gamgee onto some motorbike handlebars, as he wept and begged to be let go, then ripping down his trousers and-" The merry bearded man broke off to laugh; a deep, hearty sound. "And that's not the half of what he did to little Sammy, if the elves' tales are true!"

"I always wondered why he allowed Jackson to turn him into a little, whining prick!" Gandalf exclaimed in astonishment. "I mean, talk about a character assassination..." He shook his head in wonder.

"It's old Glorfindel I feel sorry for." Bombadil said merrily. "The way they turned him into a woman, and had him marrying Aragorn and all. His elf mates ripped the piss out of him for months after that! I heard he had to go into therapy to get over the trauma."

"Those elves can be a nasty bunch." Gandalf shook his head angrily.

"Is that why you and Frodo left the West to come back to the land of the living?" Dumbledore asked. "I always wondered why you'd give up paradise to slum it with us mere mortals."

"No, I just got sick of Bilbo's bawdy poetry." Gandalf sighed. "There was a young man from Staddle..." He mocked, bitterly. "If you consider it a paradise to sit around all day, listening to shit poetry, then I'm sure you'd love it; but for those of us with a modicum of taste, it was utter hell." Gandalf shrugged.

"It must have been a shock for Frodo." Dumbledore said. "When he found out Sam was doing four years for embezzlement."

"It was indeed." Gandalf agreed, sadly. "You should have seen him ironing his lucky trousers as we approached the Grey Havens!"

Dumbledore paused. "I was never quite sure on the details..."

Gandalf looked accusingly at Bombadil, who shrugged.

"Yes, yes!" Bombadil cried. "T'was my evidence that sent old Sammy down, but old Tom wasn't going to perjure himself in court for anyone!" He chuckled merrily. "I supposed you want to know the details?"

Dumbledore licked his lips and nodded his head eagerly.

Tom went into a long a complex story about how Sam - who had been the mayor of Hobbiton at this time - had ended up embezzling the money which got him arrested and sent down for a four-year stretch with no chance of parole. It all began when Rosie Cotton- now Gamgee, had fallen and badly injured herself working as a supervisor on Bombadil's fracking operation in the Westfarthing. In truth, Tom admitted, the accident had been entirely the fault of the company's lax health-and-safety procedures; but lacking the requisite insurance, they had refused to offer her any sick pay, going so far as to sack her a few days later for 'breaking her back on the job,' which they said constituted 'gross misconduct'.

Rosie - being in a torment of agony day and night - due to The Shire lacking any sort of formal health care, or doctors and the like; had begged Sam to help her end it all, so she did not have to suffer the utter misery her life had become any longer. After three days of psyching himself up, Sam had tried placing a pillow over her face, but her thrashing arms and muffled cries were too much for his soft hobbit heart to bear and he hadn't gone through with the euthanization; despite his wife's bitter aspersions relating to his manhood as he wept on the floor, defeated.

Being a trusting sort, but not altogether bright; he had turned to Bombadil for help; who, never being one to miss an opportunity to profit, had furnished Sam with a small, beige powder in a foil wrap and given him instructions how to inject it into Rosie's veins. It would give her sweet release from the misery of her anguished days and nights, Bombadil said, with an odd gleam in his eye, and an excited, nervous chuckle.

That was how Sam had gotten the love of his life hooked on heroin, and in all the long bitter years that followed, he never forgave himself. At first their savings had covered the enormous cost of the powder they brought once every few days from Bombadil, but after a while, and as Rosie's habit grew, they were selling everything and anything they could lay their hands on to keep Rosie from the indescribable horror of withdrawal; made all the worse by her smashed and ruined spine.

With the furniture gone, and the children all pimped out - and little Elanor still missing, presumed dead at the hands of a wayward trick - Sam had finally come up with the plan that had gotten him into so much trouble. He had started a collection around The Shire, 'to provide a long-needed upgrade to the mathom house at Michel Delving; and turn it in a fully-interactive, audio-visual consumer experience which would be the wonder of the lands, from Gondor to the Grey Havens.' So the spiel went.

It turned out that Sam had quite the talent for parting unsuspecting rubes of their hard-earned coin, and had begun operating a boiler-room type scheme, selling worthless shares in the project and promising impossible returns to the excited investors. Indeed before long the fund had grown so large that people were beginning to become impatient to see the wonder that he was creating in the boarded-up and scaffolded mathom house.

"The irony is," Tom laughed, "that if he had managed his finances a little more cleverly; he could have siphoned off the money into a few shell companies - set up just for the occasion - and declared bankruptcy without suffering any ill consequences at all! I've done it myself a hundred times, and so have all my capitalist friends, oh ho ho! He could even have taken out a massive bank loan that he would never have had to repay!" Tom wiped away a tear of mirth. "But prison's for the little people who only go half-way, like old Sammy I suppose. Them that know enough to cheat folk, but not enough to game the system. There's no moral difference o'course, but that don't make the judge's gavel slam down any softer; no, no no, my derry doll!"

They all laughed at the thought of the rigged system which allowed already wealthy people to cheat, lie and steal billions upon billions of pounds with impunity; going so far as to make up flimsy excuses for illegal wars on fake pretexts in order to get their hands on trillions worth of natural resources - and the inevitable rebuilding contracts - whilst the poor folk went to prison for crimes such as not being able to afford a television license; the money from which which would go towards funding twenty-four-hour propaganda - read out by a millionaire - straight into their cold, damp, rented hovels.

"My favourite part," chuckled Dumbledore, "is how rich 'liberals' are more interested in policing language than doing anything to stop the modern-day imperialism being carried out around the world, in their name. They even vote in droves for the people who carry it out! Just look at wassisname; he bombed seven predominately Muslim countries in his last year of office- that's twenty-six-thousand-one-hundred-and-seventy-one bombs in twenty-sixteen alone! But it's all apparently OK because he dropped them with love and understanding." He winked.

"Yes indeed," Gandalf smiled. "The masses make it all possible, with their contradictory morals and willingness to turn a blind eye to the suffering of others, just so long as they're comfortable and their leaders don't offend them with naughty words; bless their little cotton socks!"

"There's always the argument it was done to keep his citizens safe." Said Tom, reasonably.

"Oh I don't doubt that many of those bombs found a less than savoury target and rid the world of some utter scumbags." Dumbledore mused. "And good riddance to bad rubbish, I say! But how many innocent civilians, how many wedding parties, hospitals and schools are too many? At what point does 'self-defence' cross the line into 'aggression'?

"How many died as a result of Iraq alone, again?" Asked Tom.

Dumbledore frowned. "The estimates vary, but something like two-hundred-thousand innocent souls, give or take."

"Pah!" Gandalf snorted. "What's roughly the entire population of Des Moines, between friends?"

They all laughed merrily.

Tom stroked his beard, pondering something. "The new one's not shaping up to be any better, for all his mighty talk." He observed at last.

"Well no." Dumbledore admitted easily. "But I think that just goes to highlight how it's the entire system which is rigged; that is to say, special interests dictate policy, backed up by the deep state; not governments, and certainly not the people-"

Tom bellowed sudden laughter. "And thank goodness that they do!" He roared, regaling them fondly of his fracking operation and all the politicians and mainstream media journalists he had wined, dined, bribed and blackmailed to make it happen. His masterstroke however, had been to donate a scant twenty-thousand to a well-known feminist campaigner - whom he referred to as 'Annie' - and have her present fracking as a feminist cause. 'We need more women in fracking' had been the tagline, and once that had been established no one had dared speak out against it for fear of being labelled a misogynist and losing their jobs.

"What did she do with the money?" Asked Dumbledore.

Tom smiled to himself. "Spent it all on a five minute video - recorded on a smartphone - apparently," he stage-winked.

"Ah," smiled Gandalf. "It's true what they say; every great cause begins as a movement, becomes a business, and eventually degenerates into a racket."

Dumbledore stroked his plaited beard, looking thoughtful. "And how many women have actually died on site?"

"Eighteen! Officially..." Tom tittered, "not counting the life-changing injuries, like Rosie's of course. "We just present them as pioneers, give the family a little plaque commemorating their contribution to equality- that sort of thing; and if anyone ever questions what we're about, I just scream at them 'WHAT IS IT YOU HATE ABOUT EQUALITY?' And that usually does the trick." Tom smiled wistfully. "Of course, if they still cause trouble even after all that, I just accuse them of 'mansplaining'- or 'internalising their misogyny,' if they're a woman; ha ha they don't stand a chance! I owe people like Annie so much." He grew a bit misty eyed.

"Brilliant!" Exclaimed Gandalf and Dumbledore together.

"JINX!" They squealed - again in unison - before falling about laughing and tickling each other.

"You never finished the story, Tom." Dumbledore chided. "How did Gamgee get found out in the end?"

"Well it was obvious!" Laughed Bombadil. "When the mathom house reopened, after its 'extensive refurbishment', the only difference was that Sam had chained an old, first-generation ipat to one of the displays. That was his idea of an 'audio-visual, fully-interactive consumer experience,' oh ho ho! Seven hundred thousand in small donations, all for an old tablet running a corrupted operating system... in Mandarin!"

Gandalf and Dumbledore wiped tears of laughter away from their creased eyes.

"Ipat?" Dumbledore asked, doubtfully. "Surely you mean ipad, Tom?"

"I say what I mean, and I mean what I say!" Bombadil exclaimed, waving a finger. "It was a Chinese knock-off, with a cracked screen! Turns out he bought it from Ted Sandyman, for five times its actual value..." He trailed off, shaking his head fondly at the memory. "I'll say one thing for old Sammy though," Bombadil continued. "No one's had sight nor sound o'that money since it went missing, that's one thing at least he got right!"

Gandalf coughed guiltily at this, and both men looked at him suspiciously.

"Ah-" The old wizard from Middle Earth began. "Well, actually... I was supposed to be 'holding' it for him, in a safe location until he got out."

"Supposed?" Dumbledore echoed.

Gandalf winced. "Truth is, I spent it on an antique tablet of Persian knitting patterns from the Fifth-century BCE." He looked at his companions appealingly. "It was a rare and unique archaeological find, in the original cuneiform! I had to pay ISIS Eight-Hundred-Thousand pounds for it in the end, after they'd looted it from a private collector's museum In Raqua."

Tom gasped. "Dumbledore!" He cried. "It's not like you to go around funding terrorists, and looting important historical artefacts! That's more my line of work." He grinned.

Dumbledore looked sheepish. "I do love knitting patterns..." He shrugged. "In fact I've been known to break into muggle homes whilst they're on holiday and steal them, if you want to know the whole truth; just ask Slughorn, he sometimes joins me and steals their underwear."

The men fell about laughing in a seemingly inseparable tangle of limbs, beards and sticky, withered genitalia.

 **D** any straddled Jacob, grinding her hips in time with his own and gasping with delight at the steady waves of pleasure radiating out from her loins. Her milk-white breasts sprung up and down in a tight, elastic motion, as her head tilted backward, spine arched in delayed ecstasy. Jacob let out a low moan and dug his thumbs into her thighs, thrusting powerfully as he did so. The sudden feeling of spreading warmth was too much for Dany, triggering the climax that she had been delaying for the last nine-and-a-quarter hours and enveloping her body in its white-hot immediacy.

They both relaxed at the same time and remained in the same position like a pair of statues, panting. Their pale skin took on a seedy, blue hue from the blinking neon sign outside the dirty window of the roadside motel. Dany had insisted they come here for privacy, rather than 'rutting publicly like wild beasts' in the shared dormitory of Gryffindor tower; but Jacob suspected that she just liked the thrill of slumming it every now and again.

"This was just a one-off, you know?" Dany spoke first, extricating herself from the tangle of flesh that only moments earlier had felt like one person, with one heart and soul.

Jacob flashed a smile which didn't reach his eyes. "I know." He answered. "You didn't need to say it."

Dany stiffened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Jacob shrugged. "Well, you just couldn't wait could you?"

"So it would have been better if I'd led you on?" Dany's voice was rising. "Strung you along so that you thought you had a chance with me-"

"Please!" Jacob laughed, a little cruelly. "You're starting to believe your own hype; Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Bedsprings and Khaleesi of the eight-inch-"

"That's all I am to you isn't it?" Dany rounded on Jacob angrily. "A pretty little joke! Good enough to stick your precious member in, but ultimately just another one of your conquests-"

Jacob pulled a non-committal face. "If that's what you want to believe-"

"It's the truth!" Spat Dany. "I conquered half of Essos-"

"By spreading your legs." Jacob interjected.

Dany looked like she wanted to slap him, but she took a deep breath and continued. "I conquered half of Essos with nothing but a famous name, and you - who have never done anything worthwhile, I might add - you never give me the least bit of credit for my achievements-"

"It's why you like me." Jacob shrugged. "You're surrounded twenty-four seven by people who kiss your arse and tell you what a marvel of the modern world, you are; and if I did the same you wouldn't even look at me twice, I can assure you!"

Dany shook her head disgustedly. "You think so little of me..."

"Tell me I'm wrong!"

"You're wrong." Dany took the bait. "And what's more, you're an insecure, nasty little-"

"Little!" Jacob let out a mirthless bark of laughter.

"You are little-" Dany continued. "Compared to Drogon..."

"So the rumours are true?" Jacob began. "Actually, no- Don't tell me. I don't think I want to know."

"Yes they're true!" Dany said hotly. "I'm not ashamed, we Targaryens have a long and proud history of-"

"Diddling your own family." Jacob pulled an exaggerated face of disgust. "But a dragon is low, even for you."

"Low!" Dany sounded incredulous. "Low? Low is gallivanting around with that old AIDS-riddled bimbo of yours." The Dragon Queen reproached. "You only do it because you think it makes you seem edgy; you're so insecure Jacob, it's a wonder you can get it up at all!"

"If you want to talk about insecurity," Jacob's eyes flashed angrily. "We could start by looking at your overwhelming desire to conquer everything in your path, only to lose interest once you have it."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Said Dany, a little unconvincingly.

"All these conquests," Jacob expanded on the theme. "All the cities, all the countries, all the men in your life- it's all just you trying to win the approval of your brother, Viserys; the only father figure that you ever knew!"

"Thanks for the psyche 101." Dany scoffed. "Don't give up the day job, will you?"

Jacob waved a hand. "Whatever... But that's why you always come back to me, even if you don't admit it to yourself. I'm the one thing that you can't conquer, and it drives you mad!"

"Don't flatter yourself." Dany retorted, bitterly.

"Say I loved you." Jacob changed tack. "Say I loved you with all my heart and wanted to be with you forever-"

Dany laughed scornfully.

"I'd still have to treat you this way," Jacob continued. "Because if I let my guard down for one second, if I let you think you'd won me over completely..." He looked at her desperately for a moment, trying to convey with his eyes what his tongue refused to speak; but Dany was gazing away, embittered disgust trying, but not quite succeeding to sully her beautiful features.

"That's a fantasy Jacob, an insecure fantasy cooked up by an emotional coward." She finally looked up; too late. You're trying to blame your own callous actions on me; that's abuse! It's gaslighting! It's-"

"Ah, forget it!" Jacob gave up. "You're right, I'm nasty and insecure. I'm gaslighting you because I hate you, all that stuff."

"Why do you always have to make it so difficult?" Dany self-consciously wiped a tear away from one eye. "Every time, you have to spoil things-"

"Yep- sorry; don't know what came over me." Jacob said easily. "Something about wild sex with the Dragon Queen brings out the animal side of me."

Dany regarded him from the corner of her eye to see if this was meant as an insult, but Jacob seemed perfectly sincere. Letting down her guard a little she wondered why the words had seemed so familiar.

"You sounded like Ser Barristan when you said that."

"Ser whoistan?" Jacob asked.

"Oh, just some old nudist who used to work for my father. I left him in Meereen when I came to find you." She reddened. "I mean- you know, on a recce because of the Night King."

If Jacob had noted this slip-up, he didn't let on. "Nudist eh?" He said brightly. "And I remind you of him?" He looked down at his naked body. "I can see that."

"No!" Dany laughed. "It's just something he used to say about being nude allowing you to 'commune with your animalistic nature'. He had no shame, even less than you!" She gave Jacob a playful slap. "If I wore a particularly revelaing dress, he'd walk around all day with a stiffy like it was the most natural thing in the world-" She caught herself. "Well... normal, I should say."

"Sounds like a bit of a legend." Jacob observed. "Shame you didn't bring him over with you instead of Mormont. God; he's dark Dany-"

"I didn't bring him, he crash landed not far from here by pure coincidence!" Dany flashed.

"Yeah, I'm sure it was just a big coincidence..." Jacob's tone dripped sarcasm. "I'm sure that engine just happened to explode right when he was-"

"Ser Jorah wouldn't do that!" Dany shouted. "He's got his problems, I'll admit; but he's working through them and he'd never do anything so reckless!"

"Well I certainly hope you're right." Jacob mused. "Because if he did, he's got blood on his hands."

Dany frowned. "What do you mean, I rescued everyone... didn't I?"

Jacob studied her face a moment. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, but when you 'saved' everyone, what did you do afterwards?"

Dany's posture stiffened. "Ser Jorah and I went back to Gryffindor tower and watched the Golden Child with a mug of hot cocoa."

"Yes, I remember," said Jacob. "It was the night Hermione got engaged to Voldemort."

"So what's your point?" Dany asked.

"I don't suppose you read about the young girl - twelve years old - they found frozen to death on the mountainside a few days ago?"

Dany just stared at Jacob, afraid to ask, but needing to know. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Well for a start," Jacob began. "And bear in mind this isn't a proper criticism, you saved everyone on that plane and you should be proud of that-"

"But..." Dany saved him the effort.

"But, whilst you and Ser Jorah were sipping hot cocoa and watching Eddie Murphy threaten to row Victor Wong's ass until it bled, that young girl was starving and freezing to death in the hills nearby."

"You're saying I should have done more?"

"That's entirely your choice." Jacob shrugged. "Some people might say it's your MO, to swoop in an act like the all-conquering hero, and leave a big mess behind you when you move on-"

"That's not fair! If it wasn't for me those people would have all died!"

"Like I said, it's not a proper criticism; you did more than I could have done, perhaps more than anyone..." Jacob made a philosophical indication with his head, "but you still walked away to watch the Golden Child with the job half-finished- only that's not why I brought this up."

Dany stared at her estranged husband in utter contempt.

"You didn't hear about her mother, I suppose?" Jacob continued, studiously avoiding Dany's eyes. "Hit by a car in Odessa, three months ago; died instantly. The girl disappeared soon after, in the company of her 'uncle', a nameless man who fits the description of someone we both know."

Dany bit her bottom lip nervously. "What- what did they say?"

"Well according to family friends, he'd been sniffing around the mother for some time, they were in an on-again-off-again kind of relationship; but the relatives were more concerned about the interest he was showing in Olechka - that was the dead girl's name - and when the post-mortem came through..." Jacob shuddered. "I was forcibly reminded of what the Maester said about-"

"Missandei..." Dany finished for him.

"Her skin was covered in teeth marks, Dany." Jacob said. "Whoever it was bit her right through to the bone, they were all over her body; she had a GPS tracking device sewn into her abdomen, the wound had gone rotten and festered..."

Dany shuddered and felt like she wanted to wretch. "There was a girl..." She began doubtfully.

"It was Mormont." Said Jacob. "I know it."

"You don't know it." Dany countered, without much conviction. "It's alright for you, you never liked him anyway. When you're a queen, it's different. You have to be fair; and just."

"And was it 'fair and just' that a twelve-year old Ukrainian girl was snatched from her home, raped, tortured and left on a hillside to die, by an unspeakable monster?" Jacob turned the explanation around, against Daenerys.

"That's not what I said!" Dany said angrily. "When you hold the power of life and death in your hands, you need to be absolutely sure before you send someone to the headsman; oh, you wouldn't understand!"

"Perhaps not." Jacob responded as reasonably as he could. "But ask yourself this; if it were proven to you that Mormont did those things, could you bring yourself to do it, even then?"

"Yes- yes of course!" Dany began, before faltering. "I mean... it would have to be beyond all doubt-"

Jacob cut her off with a harsh laugh. "That's what I thought." He said scathingly.

They turned their backs on one another and stared at opposite walls in bitter silence; the blinking neon street sign periodically filled the room with its violet glow, keeping perfect time with their rapidly pounding hearts.

 **B** ack in Dumbledore's tower, Gandalf was lighting up a fatty with some really powerful weed he had purchased from Professor Sprout earlier that day. He lay back and exhaled a huge cloud of thick, white smoke, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as the tetrahydrocannabinol did it's job, coursing through his bloodstream.

"Golly gosh, my derry doll!" Bombadil cried, laughing. "Why that smells even stronger than the stuff I get off Farmer Maggot, he's got a hydroponics lab down in a secret basement under his farm - claims it's for growing mushrooms, but old Tom knows better - ring-ding-a-dillo!"

Dumbledore seemed interested at this. "Can you hook me up, do you think Tom?" He asked, slightly too eagerly.

Gandalf flashed Tom a quick, warning look, which Dumbledore missed.

Bombadil winced and made a troubled face. "He er- only likes to sell to friends," he explained apologetically. "Had some trouble with the shirriffs a few years back, scaled down his operation. I wouldn't like to risk it I'm afraid."

Dumbledore sighed. "Figures." He said, sadly.

In truth, Dumbledore had a bit of a reputation for blabbing and had gotten more than one dealer into hot water by boasting to everyone and anyone about his 'connections', which were really other people's connections. He liked to act like he was in-the-know, but the truth was that he was a bit of a faker, and liked the thought of himself having 'a reputation' more than the drugs themselves. He generally only had to look at a spliff out of the corner of one eye before he was on his knees hugging the toilet bowl, having a massive whitey. This was usually accompanied by his crying like a baby and shouting "KILL ME!" at random intervals to whoever would listen.

"What did that remind me of?" Gandalf mused, deftly changing the subject. "When you said Tom..."

Bombadil laughed merrily, "I wondered that too, my hearty!"

Gandalf snapped his fingers excitedly, as it came to him. "I know what it was, the fifth Harry Potter film, when you're talking to Voldemort!"

"It was foolish to come here tonight, Tom." Dumbledore said, smiling indulgently. "Although I'm pretty sure I didn't write myself asking the Dark Lord to hook me up with some dope shit."

Being perilously close to the original subject again, Gandalf changed tack. "There's something I wanted to ask you about those films Dumbledore- about one in particular, actually."

Dumbledore nodded that he should continue; he loved to talk about himself; and as a consequence, people rarely asked him to.

"That scene in Half Blood Prince when you go to visit Riddle in the orphanage-"

"I remember the one." Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye.

"Well it's always reminded me of something." Gandalf frowned. "Although I've never been able to place what it was." He shook his head sadly, "I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Elves or Men or Orcs, that was ever used for such a purpose. I still do, in fact, but this chronic is battering my head like Grond on the gates of Minas Tirith. I doubt I could tell you my own name if you put a gun to my head right now." He broke off to laugh in an odd high-pitched keen, which was very unlike his normal voice.

"Oliver Twist?" Dumbledore offered.

"Stop fucking with me, you lightweight." Gandalf chided. "I'm Gadnalf the Gay, or whatever." He burst out laughing again, drooling spit on his bare white chest.

Dumbledore looked slightly offended at being called a lightweight - most probably because it was absolutely true - but he ignored the insult and tried again. "Oliver Twist, that scene- I stole it straight from Oliver Twist."

Gandalf's face was a picture of revelation. "So you did!" He slapped his knee in delight. "And-"

"That's not all I stole!" Dumbledore laughed, finding the confession quite hilarious.

"No indeed!" Said Gandalf, eyes wide as if he had just discovered the meaning of life. "I mean the whole set up- Lord! It's so obvious now!"

Dumbledore chuckled pleasantly. "Imagine," he said, "being paid millions of pounds to lazily plagiarise better writers' original work! And my goodness, don't even get me started on the plotholes!"

"Oh Dumbledore, don't be so hard on yourself." Tom wagged a reproachful finger. "You sold millions of books, had one of the most successful movie franchises of all time-"

"Ah, but what did I really do?" Countered Dumbledore, shrugging. "I mean, take Dickens for example; in Oliver Twist he wrote a withering critique - absolutely dripping with sarcasm - about the social issues of the day, and the people who allowed them to happen. It's indisputable that he did so in the hopes of engendering some sympathy - and as a consequence, change - in the hardened hearts and minds of the good, but errant people who read his work. And what did I do, exactly? I put my young protagonist through a uniquely individual hell - relevant to no one but himself - mostly in order that my magical boarding school seem particularly pleasant in juxtaposition. A cheap and nasty device, and one I'm not altogether proud of."

Gandalf frowned through bloodshoot eyes, his voice was hoarse. "You're being far too hard on yourself er- Doubledoor? You just wanted to save your protagonist from the protracted misery he was undergoing; and by extension, all the readers who may have been suffering similar fates. It was an act of kindness, not cynicism!"

"Kindness was it?" Laughed Dumbledore. "Was it kind that I made him into a child solider? Is Joseph Kony 'kind' to his child soldiers, do you think? Was it kind to put his life in constant danger? Murder not just his entire family, but every father figure he ever knew; including myself, I might add?"

"But surely Dumbledore-" Began Tom.

"Dibbeldour! That was it!" Gandalf interrupted Bombadil, snapping his fingers.

"Surely Dumbledore," Tom resumed, "you were just trying to teach your readers about adversity and how to triumph over it."

Dumbledore considered this a moment. "So you'd say the best way to triumph over adversity is to take revenge against one's enemies; using violent means?" He asked.

"Well, yes, I would, my derry doll; most heartily!" Laughed Bombadil. "But I suppose I get your point."

"I'm not sure you do." Mused Dumbledore. "Lets put it this way, my lead character doesn't have the ghost of a character arc over the entire seven novels-"

"Oh, but he makes friends, falls in love-" Gandalf began.

"Those are events, not arcs." Dumbledore interrupted. "He's the exact same person at the end of the novels as he was at the beginning. He went from a brave, determined boy intent on fighting the Dark Lord, to a brave and determind young man, intent on fighting the Dark Lord. I mean, by killing his parents I wrote myself into a bit of a corner from the start. There was just no room for ambiguity, no room for doubt. I took the easy option and rather than have my lead character entertaining doubts, or having to think up more challenging, complex motives for his actions; I just killed his parents and bada-bing-bada-boom!" He dusted his hands with a loud clapping motion. "Instant revenge fantasy, no tough questions asked."

"Look; I don't care what you say, you miserable old sod." Gandalf tried to sit up, but his elbows had seemingly turned to jelly. "That whole series is pure quality- it's wonderful, it just has this indefinable... magic about it; it's bloody phenomenal, is what it is!"

Dumbledore seemed touched by this and grew a bit misty-eyed, wiping his tears on a crumpled fifty pound note, before throwing it casually into the fire. "You're too kind, my friend." He said at last.

Bombadil grinned. "Well I'm with old Gladelf over there, I absolutely loved it. Such wonderful escapism from a dreary and depressing modern world- I especially love how you killed off Snape!" He laughed. "In the last film too, I bet he thought he was going to make it, didn't he?"

"Haha, yes!" Dumbledore laughed. "He cried for weeks afterwards. I wanted to do it all for real, of course. Have him butchered on set and all that, but David Yates insisted we use special effects instead; what an old stick in the mud!"

They all laughed at the thought of Snape being brutally chopped up for the purposes of light entertainment, as a faint wail of artistic frustration could just be made out from the direction of the hospital wing.

"How does he do that?" Bombadil mused rather quietly, to himself.

Gandalf lay back, sucking on his twenty-five skin masterpiece, contentedly. Suddenly he frowned. "Damn," he said, "this spliff's gone out! Dumbledore, tell me you've got a lighter somewhere among all this rubbish?" He motioned around at all the wondrous magical contraptions which Dumbledore had on display in the tower. "Just look at all that bonkers shit..." He marvelled, then burst out into a high-pitched giggle.

"Why don't you just use your staff to light it?" Tom asked.

Gandalf flashed. "Because I don't want to advertise my whereabouts to all and sundry!" He barked. "Especially not Saruman-" He broke off.

"Why would Saruman be jealous if you were in my tower, late at night?" Dumbledore asked, suspiciously.

"I didn't say jealous- who said jealous? Did you say jealous?" Gandalf spoke rapidly. He turned to Tom. "There's nothing going on with me and Saruman... or Treebeard for that matter!" He added, coughing guiltily. "I got those splinters when I fell on a log; the branch just happened to go right up my ars-"

"No one is accusing you of anything Gandalf." Dumbledore smiled kindly, whist making a note that Treebeard was almost certainly active, and another note to take precaution for splinters. "You just wanted a light for you spliff, it's gone out, remember?"

"Of course I remember!" Barked Gandalf. "I'm not a dotard, not yet; whatever Saruman says! Stupid, sexy, idiot..." He broke off and had the good grace to blush. Gathering himself, he turned to Dumbledore. "So, er- do you have a lighter amongst all this lot?"

Dumbledore gathered himself up in a dignified manner. "I've always prided myself on my ability to turn a phrase," he began, pausing for effect before saying; "it's over there, on the table."

"Nice, er- turn of phrase." Gandalf said, reaching for the small, silver lighter. "You work long on that one?"

Dumbledore blushed. "Six weeks in fact, I've been waiting for years to use it in natural conversation."

Gandalf and Tom flashed each other an almost simultaneous eyeroll. There was an uncomfortable silence as the pair tried, and only partly succeeded in not letting their embarrassment show.

"It's just no one at Hogwarts smokes," Dumbledore continued, oblivious. "I've tried to encourage some of the children to start, but they just don't seem interested." He sighed. "I even had the house elves hide nicotine in their pumpkin juice to get them surreptitiously hooked, but they all go around tooting on those vape sticks instead."

"Kids today..." Bombadil shook his head in disgust.

Gandalf, who had by this time wreathed himself in a cloud of thick smoke waved a lazy hand in the air, without bothering to lift his head from the pillow where it rested. "Someone pass the poppers."

"You feeling accommodating?" Ask Tom, licking his lips.

"Most." Replied Gandalf simply. "Just watch out for splinters-"

Just then, the door banged open and McGonagall rushed into the room, her face contorted in panic and terror.

"Albus!" She cried, frantically. "Albus, we're under attack!"

"Not this again," Dumbledore sighed. "Minerva; if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, immigration is a good thing for the countr-"

"No, Albus!" McGonagall wailed. "I'm not talking about that; it's the Night King! He's joined forced with the Nor-Folk and they're attacking Hogwarts!"

As if on cue a large boom echoed around the castle, shaking the walls and causing small puffs of plaster dust to dislodge from the roof and walls.

Dumbledore jumped up at once. "Raise the alarm, get everyone to their stations, we must repel the invaders-"

"But there is no one Albus!" McGonagall's face was almost inhuman in its sheer frenzy. "They're all on the toilet; poisoned by Snape's cooking!"

"But, I thought no one actually ate any?" Tom interjected, looking confusedly at McGonagall.

"They didn't need to!" McGonagall tore at her face. "According to Madam Pomfrey, it was so noxious that just being in its vicinity was enough to induce violent, explosive diarrhoea and uncontrollable vomiting; among other less savoury symptoms!"

"The brown wedding!" Gandalf burst out laughing, burning his nostrils away with deep inhalations of poppers.

"All standard forms of magical communication have been cut; we have no owls, no floo network, no- nothing! We're alone, Albus." McGonagall looked pleadingly at the headmaster. "What on earth are we going to do?"

"Not alone, Minerva." Dumbledore smiled "And there's only one thing that can be done in a situation like this." He went on, confidently. "Tom, pass me my magically jailbroken HTC U11; I need to give Jacob a call."


End file.
